


Dearest William - first draft

by RedChucks



Category: Original Work
Genre: Boer War, Gay Characters, Gay Romance, Injury, Lesbian Characters, M/M, Minor character death I think, Original Fiction, Vintage queer, Work In Progress, World War One, blood mention, but I swear it's going to have a happy ending, mild violence, non-graphic sex scenes, sex scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 08:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 109,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16215545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: Fifteen years after their first meeting as soldiers in the Second Boer War Bill Mullen and William Reeves are happily living the quiet life, until the onset of World War One pulls them back in to the world of danger, secrets, and explosions.- this is a work in progress, feedback is always welcome -





	1. Chapter 1

Asphodel Meadows, Hampshire  
27th June, 1914

Bill looked up with a grin as the shadow fell across his hands and the sticky, red wine patterns he was tracing across the table. The party was in full swing and he felt giddy in a way he hadn’t experienced since the reckless days of his youth. The smile William gave him in reply only bolstered the feeling, sending his heart in to a spin that he had once associated with danger and action but which now seemed reserved for one man and one man alone. He allowed Will to pull him to his feet, laughing aloud at the way he was swept from his seat and toward what was usually their sitting room when it wasn’t filled with revelers and well wishers dancing to the small band that occupied the corner by the fireplace. In truth there were not so many people, Bill reminded himself. He would not have coped with a truly big crowd, but compared to their usually quiet existence, even the dozen or so guests seemed a large number. He looked up as he was tugged out on to the impromptu dance floor, laughing and feeling a little dazed by the lights, the colour, the noise, and the alcohol skipping through his veins. 

Despite being a good five inches taller than he, Will was of finer, thinner build and was not usually the one to use heft to get his way, but tonight was a special night, and so Bill allowed himself to be dragged and manhandled in to the right position for the tune that was beginning, before taking Will in his arms and spinning him quickly about, nearly taking his feet out from under him and eliciting a whoop from their guests at the display. He felt Will’s fingers tighten as he steadied his grip on Bill’s arm, and drew him closer, unable to hide even a fraction of the affection he felt for the man in his arms. They were not usually so open in their affections. To do so would be to invite not only scandal but the law down upon their heads. Day to day, in the wider world, they were expert at maintaining distance and showing their affection in ways that might be safely interpreted as platonic, but tonight, in the safety their home, surrounded by like-minded friends, Bill intended to do just as he pleased. It was their wedding day after all. 

As Will laughed - that short and sharp, delighted sound that made Bill’s heart sing to hear - he took a moment to admire the man in his arms. He was tall, at least compared to Bill’s lowly five feet, four inches, and his slender figure accentuated his height, as did the narrow, chiseled, bone structure of his face. Bill had often had cause to admire his lover’s features, a favourite pass-time really, but it also, inevitably, led him to compare his own features to Will’s, to mark how Will’s nose was as narrow as his was wide, Will’s skin as freckled and fair as Bill’s was sun-blessed brown. They were a perfect match, in their way, and Bill could’t imagine anything more wonderful, or any man more splendid, than the one before him. 

Will, of course, held a different opinion of himself but Bill had spent the last fourteen years expressing his delight and desire and adoration for the man and figured that one day Will might possibly believe him. Perhaps William wasn’t quite the image of the upper-crust gentleman and bachelor that the wider world thought him to be; his nose was thin and straight, his chin sharp and strong, his brows were dark and thick and made him seem ever troubled. His hair was likewise dark and thick, and wayward, but beneath the serious countenance he gave off an air of genuine humbleness. He kept his face clean shaven, shunning the moustache that was the style of the day, and Bill knew that he maintained clean face for reasons other than a dislike of fashion. Quietly, Bill thought that a day or two’s worth of stubble suited his lover very well, but as long as he trimmed it well enough for Bill to be able to read his lips to make up for his shoddy left ear, he didn’t much mind what Will did with his facial hair. He was not perhaps considered stylish by the city socialites, it was true, a set that included his half-sister and two, younger, half-brothers, but to Bill, William Reeves was everything one could hope for and the most beautiful man alive.

He leaned closer, to better gaze in to Will’s eyes, seeking out the flecks of yellow and green in the otherwise honey brown irises. They always reminded him of the fields in early spring, the smell of light rain and warm sun and the first wild flowers of the season: the hope of new life. Ever since he’d seen the colours and made the connection he couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope when he looked in to William’s eyes, even when the man himself did not look so hopeful. He’d gaze at them every minute of the day and night if the man weren’t so damned shy about such things. Just then though he wasn’t looking away but was holding his gaze steadily and, looking up, Bill fancied that all he could see was love and it was the most wonderful feeling he could imagine.

It was enough to make him forget the colour and noise all about him for a moment, spinning about the room with Will’s arms around him, until the song came to a close and the clanging of a spoon against a metal tankard summoned the attention of the guests that surrounded them.

“Friends!” called Freddie from her position on a chair by the band, her tie askew and waistcoat rumpled, her cheeks flushed pink as she grinned and called them to order. She had insisted on taking her role as ‘best man’ very seriously and it was clear that, to her mind at least, one of her duties was the giving of a toast. “Friends!”

“Romans!” called a voice from the crowd, quickly followed by a call of, “Countrymen!” from somewhere toward the back, which led to a roar of laughter from the assembled party. Beside him, William laughed heartily and Bill felt his own smile stretch wide across his lips.

“Shut it, you bunch of heathens!” Freddie bellowed, though she laughed along with the rest. “I am trying to give a toast.” 

The room quieted properly after that, aside from a gentle whispering and the clink of glasses being passed about in preparation. Bill gave William’s hand a squeeze and felt a squeeze in his chest as the gesture was returned. Will’s cheeks were rosy and he was smiling delicately, unused to such attention as he’d been subjected to all day, but Bill was happy to let their friends dote on them and toast them. Will deserved all the affection and love they could muster, and he turned to Freddie with a smile, catching her eye and nodding for her to begin. No one gave toasts quite like The Honourable, Doctor ‘Freddie’ Lester.

“Right,” she said, with jovial pomp, “now that we’ve all got our glasses filled do try not to empty them before time. Because this toast, my dear friends, is an important one. Today, on this perfect, British, summers days, we were granted the great privilege of witnessing the formal declaration of love and commitment between these two dear gentlemen.” She gestured to where they stood and the red of Will’s cheeks deepened as all eyes in the room turned toward them for a moment before returning to Freddie.

“William and William!” she said with a wicked smile, and chuckled at the mock glare Bill sent her way. “Will and Bill. Captain Reeves and Corporal Mullen. Whatever names you happen to go by. The law may not recognise the vows you made to one another today, but that does not make them any less true, less honest, less beautiful, less binding. We called upon Artemis and Athena when we joined your hands. Not that I think you need their help, you have been devoted to one another through the years and through war, and through that incident with your father’s will.” There was a soft titter as their friends recalled the surprise many had felt after the death of Lord Reeves, upon discovering he had named William, his illegitimate son, as inheritor of the country house and small parcel of land that was now their home. “You are the sort of star-crossed lovers one wishes one could read of,” Freddie continued, emotion edging in to her voice as she began to raise her glass. “We called upon the gods of Olympus: Artemis, Athena, Demeter, and dear Aphrodite, when we stood among the trees to bear witness to your wedding vows. We asked them to protect your love, and we, as your witnesses, vowed to protect that love as well. It takes true courage to give voice to our love in such times. And so, we lift our glasses to you. May the gods of love be with you always, may you live to see your love set free, and may your lives be filled with joy and peace.”

“To joy and peace!” came the reply from their friends, and Bill lifted William’s hand, still entwined with his, to his lips, to kiss his husband’s slender fingers in his own salute to such heartfelt words. 

“And now!” Freddie announced loudly, obviously not quite done with the spotlight. “And now I do call upon the god Dionysus! May our revels surpass the dawn and the memory of them live in our hearts for all our lives!” 

A great cheer went up at that and the band struck up again as Freddie jumped down from her chair, sweeping the closest girl in to her arms and off in to the renewed dancing.

“She’s a good speaker, your Freddie,” William said, leaning in toward Bill’s right side with a chuckle, and Bill looked up to see the amusement and affection dancing in the man’s eyes. “We need more men like her in Parliament.”

“If only!” Bill replied with a laugh but he saw the edge of unease in the line of William’s mouth and set of his jaw and leant in to kiss it away before it could overtake the man’s ever-racing mind. 

“Joy and peace,” Will spoke more softly against his lips. “We live in hope, I suppose.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Bill replied firmly, wrapping his arm around William’s waist, slim and firm and so very fetching in his wedding-day suit. “And dance to that. Come on now, old man. No worrying about the greater world tonight. Tonight we dance ‘til dawn. Unless you don’t think you’re up to it.”

He spoke the challenge slyly and felt Will’s chuckle through his chest where they were pressed to one another. His husband’s hand tightened on his shoulder and he knew his teasing had done its work. Captain William Reeves did not like to back down from a challenge. Though mild mannered he was a man of honour and pride and Bill knew just how to use that to their mutual satisfaction. He kissed the man again quickly before tightening his grip and swinging him off in to the dance once more. He knew there were worries that laid heavily on his husband’s heart, that the upheavals of the world were his concern, and very real, and very dangerous, but he also knew that they could wait. Tonight was their night and he did not intend to waste it. 

~~~~

The hours passed but the celebrations carried on. The dancing gave way to softer music and quiet conversation, and as the stars faded in preparation for the dawn Bill and William’s friends began to drift toward their beds until just their most intimate circle remained. 

They were an odd bunch. A queer bunch, William thought to himself with smile, but they were better friends than he had ever reckoned to deserve. Sat at the piano, playing with a delicacy that belied his large frame, was Smithy. He was the only local who knew the truth of William and Bill’s relationship, being a perceptive man, and gay himself, and had proved an invaluable ally and true friend over the years. His moniker reflected his profession as village blacksmith and wheelwright and Will had returned from business in London many times to the sight of Smithy and Bill happily chatting and tinkering (‘improving’ as they put it) various pieces of farm equipment. 

Egg was the youngest of their circle, a quiet woman of twenty-nine and friend to Freddie, she worked as a chemist and had become fast friends with Bill when they discovered a shared love for the types of chemicals that created loud bangs and bright colours, and a shared disability. Freddie herself had been dear to Bill since childhood and William struggled to imagine a bond that could last from the simplicity of infancy and through to adult life, yet she and Bill were perfectly suited to one another, platonically, and it seemed that not even Bill’s deployment to South Africa and eventual settlement in Britain could keep them apart. Of her own accord Freddie had left Australia, where she had lived from the age of six, and had returned to England’s shores, only to run in to Bill on her first day back. There was a bond between them that Will envied at times, an intimacy to the way they spoke to each other, an understanding and a shared past that Will still didn’t know the whole truth of, and probably never would. Memories that Bill had never been able to tell him were best left well alone and Will had no desire to pry or employ his intelligence gathering skills in uncovering the traumas of Bill’s past - those secrets were kept by Freddie, and kept well. He was simply happy to know that Bill loved him, and that he had friends around him who knew his past and could support him even when Will couldn’t. 

The closest Will had to that sort of bond of friendship was Charlie, but he knew it wasn’t quite the same. Charlie was a good man and a fine friend, and their initial bond had been forged through a shared secret and a shared inclination, and the fear of being discovered and outed. They had never been involved romantically, or physically; Will had never felt any attraction to Charlie in that way, but they had long had each other’s back, and had kept one another safe and forewarned when necessary. When they had been young men, barely beyond boyhood and studying at the military college, William had believed that they would remain bachelors for eternity, but then he had met Bill and his life, indeed his whole world, had changed. It had been a wondrous thing but it had given him some pangs of sadness too, to see Charlie alone, to know that he really was alone, in a way William hadn’t acknowledged until he had found Bill and realised that he himself no longer was. He hoped that one day Charlie would be so lucky. He deserved some happiness after the disaster of the Boer War and the years he’d spent as a prisoner of war, the stress of which had cost him his military career and left him stuck behind a desk.

That time spent as a prisoner was something else they had in common, another thread that bound them together, and to all intents and purposes William was also a ‘pencil pusher’ like his friend, a lackey for the Foreign Secretary, and that was exactly what Will wanted Charlie, and everyone else, to believe. Very few were privy to the truth, that he was also an intelligence agent and still on the military’s payroll as well as the government’s. Bill knew the truth, along with Will’s employers, but the truth stopped at them. Will was an expert when it came to keeping secrets, and discovering them, and the truths he had been discovering during his trips to the continent had been troubling him deeply of late. 

“Oh please, Willie dear,” Charlie exclaimed, recalling Will to the meandering conversation he was supposedly engaged in with the man sitting opposite him at the table. “You’re a land-owning pen pusher, the same as my good self. What do we know about continental politics?” Will merely quirked an eyebrow and held his tongue. Even if Charlie was too far gone in his glass of wine to remember their conversation in the morning, it was no reason to say more than he aught. “Let the Prussians and Serbs have their scuffles and squabbles, I say,” Charlie continued. “They’ve got no choice but to rub along. We on the other hand are an island! We are safe and there is no need for us to risk the safety of our men on a foreign conflict. The army’s having enough trouble with the bloody Irish without setting sail to go to the aid of Johnny Foreigner. The last thing we want is a war.”

“Maybe,” Will said carefully. “However to my... simple eyes... it still seems that the situation in Europe is an eruption waiting to happen. Like one of Bill’s machines. They get to a point where even he can’t flick the switch to turn them off and the best we can do is duck and cover and wait for the explosion.”

He had spoken carefully, and at low volume, but Bill’s delighted laugh from his position on the floor by the fireplace made him aware that he had been overheard, or was at least being watched.

“You ungrateful fiend!” his husband called across to him, his face alight with drink and love and joy. “If it weren’t for my ‘machines’ your old Thor wouldn’t get you as far as the end of the lane let alone London.”

“True,” Will acknowledged, for Bill had worked wonders on his aging Thor Model motorcycle, knowing how he was not fond of cars and hated ceding control to a driver, but he wasn’t about to yield an argument that easily. “And if it weren’t for your machines and tinkering and penchant for explosions we would still have the second barn.”

This statement was met with more laughter, from Bill and their remaining guests but Charlie was waving his hands as if to clear the air of William’s fears.

“Exploding barn or no, it isn’t Britain’s problem. If the up-and-ups want you to offer a solution tell them to leave it to Germany.”

“It’s the Germans who worry me,” Will mumbled, downing the dregs of his own wine and waving away Charlie’s attempts to refilling his glass.

“Oh tosh!” Charlie exclaimed, waving the bottle about dangerously. “Nothing wrong with the Germans, Willie! I’m half German! The King, God save him, is mostly German! And weren’t you singing their praises just the other day, telling me they’re the most advanced society in Europe? You can’t have changed your tune that quickly, surely old chap.”

Will hid his smile behind his hand at Charlie’s grasp of time. He had spoken such words months ago, but they were still correct. He had many contacts in Germany, which was how he knew that while Germany was indeed advanced in social society, it also had the most advanced military and a backwards monarch who was ignoring his government. The Kaiser was a liability, not just for Germany, but for all of Europe, but the men he spent his days trying to convince of this were determined to see Wilhelm the Second as a harmless buffoon and no more.

Not that he intended to tell Charlie any of this. His old friend could talk the leg off a donkey, or the crown off George V’s head if he chose, but lacked the focus to see a debate through to a logical conclusion. While Will had been musing thoughtfully Charlie’s attention had already strayed to whatever Egg and Freddie were discussing amongst themselves. He’d turned his chair and was laughing along to Egg’s animated hand movements, his debate with William already forgotten. Will let his mind wander, his thoughts on the very real problems he was facing at the office of the Foreign Secretary, until his eyes met Bill’s, the tired slopes of his lover’s eyelids a perfect match for the slouch of his shoulders and the lopsided grin that he sent Will’s way. It was sometimes hard for Will to believe that he was so loved, was at times overwhelming, especially after a childhood with an indifferent mother, absent father, boarding schools with hateful teachers, the military college, and then the army. None of it had prepared him for the possibility of a man as openly loving and loyal as Bill. 

He tried to hide the burning excitement and desire as he watched Bill rise from his position on the floor and saunter over. The look in his eyes filled Will’s chest to bursting with love and his veins with fire and when Bill leaned across the table to capture his lips in a fierce kiss he worried his skin would ignite. His lover’s teeth grazed gently over his bottom lip, his husband’s teeth, he reminded himself, and William wanted nothing so much as to pull the man in to his lap and explore every inch of his glorious, polished umber skin. It was only the fact that they weren’t alone that stopped him - there were social niceties to be respected after all - and it took every ounce of his training to hold back the desperate noise that came to his throat.

When Bill broke the kiss, Wills eyes darted across the room, but their friends didn’t seem to have noticed their display of affection. Freddie had fallen in to a light doze where she sat and Egg and Charlie were singing some popular new ditty, though very badly, as Smithy accompanied them on the piano. Seeing they were unobserved Will moved forward in an attempt to re-ignite the kiss but Bill grinned at him and stood back, stretching his spine and arms, rolling the tiredness out of his joints before reaching his hand out to pull Will to his feet. 

“Come walking with me,” he said gently. “Let’s watch the sun come up.”

“We haven’t done that in years,” Will said wonderingly, but it was still an effort to get to his feet and walk through the door. He wasn’t exactly drunk but he was exhausted and his legs seemed to have misplaced his knee caps at some stage in the evening, but he couldn’t deny Bill such a simple, yet meaningful, request. 

“Exactly,” his husband answered, heading out through the sitting room’s bay windows. “Bet you anything it’ll be just as beautiful though. Just like old times.”

William couldn’t hide his smile at those words, or the love he felt, and allowed Bill to lead him out through the doors and down and around through the kitchen garden toward the bench they had built together, out among the trees that separated the house’s surrounds from the farmland that girdled it. 

“D’you remember the first time we watched the sunrise together?” Bill asked him, swinging their joined hands and walking at a slow, carefree pace. There was a romantic note to his voice but a well-worn cheekiness in his eyes that Will found incredibly contagious. 

“Yes actually,” he replied, enjoying the flutter in his chest. “As I recall, you called it a ball of yellow bloody hell.”

Bill laughed, his white teeth bright and startling in the grey light. “I used far worse language than that, thank you very much.”

“Yes, but I don’t have your vocabulary, dear. By god, I was so awkward in those days, do you remember? And so... embarrassed,” he admitted as the smile danced around his lips. “Everything you said to me back then seemed designed to put me off balance. I’d never been so... I’d lie awake at night, thinking of you. I couldn’t even comprehend that I had feelings for you, refused to consider it. Until that day when I saw that Boer take aim at you and...”

“You took a bullet for me,” Bill supplied. “I never seriously considered you would return my feelings, let alone do something like that. I owe you my life.”

“I think we’re more than even now, dearest,” Will smiled softly, laying a kiss gently on his lover’s cheek.

“Never,” Bill replied huskily. “I owe you my world. I’ll never forget it.” He squeezed Will’s hand, his heart swelling at the way his husband returned the gesture. Bill didn’t always feel so overwhelmed by his love, though it did creep up on him from time to time. He decided to put the surge of emotion down to the fact that only the day before he’d vowed to love, honour and support William Reeves until his dying breath, and the fact that he hadn’t been to bed yet.

“And is that why you fell in love with me?” Will asked, looking up with a strange shyness in his golden eyes, as if he wasn’t sure of Bill’s motives or intentions even now. “Because of that bullet?”

“God no!” Bill leant in and kissed him, a hard, fast kiss that left Will blinking and delighted. “First time I saw you I just about fell on my face I fell so hard in love. I looked at you and thought, ‘I’m bloody well having that!’ And I’ve always been stubborn.” He grinned and pulled Will down to sit beside him on the bench. “Everything I did in that war, stupid, infuriating, or otherwise, was an attempt to get your attention and win you over. You know that.” He felt his grin widen until his left cheek began to ache as he thought back to how foolishly love struck he’d been, how hard he’d worked to annoy his captain, his lieutenant at that time, just so that he could be called in to his office and see him alone, red cheeked and furious, lips twitching and eyes pleading desperately that Bill just stop sneaking away to blow things up and throwing himself into danger.

“I still don’t believe it,” Will said at length, staring out across the misty sunrise wonderingly. “I never imagined I’d be so lucky.”

“Mm, me neither,” Bill hummed. “If you’d told me back then that one day I’d be running a picturesque little farm at the other end of the world with the love of my life, making vows to him surrounded by friends who saw it as a thing of beauty rather than a sign of a disturbed mind... Being treated with respect and love... treated like a human being... I’d have laughed in your face. But it’s funny how life goes. I never thought I’d live to be this old to be honest.”

It was Will’s turn to squeeze his hand and Bill gave in to his urge to rest his head on the taller man’s shoulder. It was the perfect height for him rest against when they were sat together and he hated to miss any opportunity to make use of it. He really hadn’t ever imagined himself reaching thirty, had certainly never thought to be so very happy. It made him want to laugh until his cheeks ached but he settled for smiling with his lip caught between his teeth instead and settled in close to Will’s side.

“Neither did I, for a while,” came the chuckle from above him and a moment later William’s head leant gently against the top of his and Bill relaxed entirely against his lover. “God you were so reckless! I thought I’d loose my mind worrying over you. The first time you nearly got yourself blown up, on the railway... I swear I’d never been so scared. I wanted to shake you. Or kiss you.”

They settled in to a comfortable silence, watching the sun as it crept lazily over the distant hills, spreading golden light like honey spilling slowly from a dropped jar. Bathed in the warm glow, they dozed, hands held tight and bodies pressed together as if they had been designed to fit perfectly side by side. Years ago, when they had first come to England, fresh out the army, before Will had inherited the estate, neither one had been able to fall asleep so easily, even when thoroughly exhausted, and there had been so many nights, first in their flat in London, and then in their current home, when they had woken each other with half remembered nightmares and strangled screams. It had taken time, patience, and good deal of love for them both to reach a level of comfort and confidence that allowed them to fall asleep in so unguarded a fashion. 

Hours passed before Will startled awake and turned at the sound of running footsteps, followed half a second later by Bill whose eyes snapped open, suddenly alert as he sensed the tension in his lover’s body, even if he hadn’t yet heard the footfalls.

Charlie was red-faced and gasping when he reached them and his eyes, which always reminded Bill of a frog’s if the poor thing had been squeezed, were now blood-shot and even more bulbous than usual. 

“Charlie boy, what’s happened?” Will stood, walking around the bench to his friend, whilst Bill, the recklessness of his youth still fresh in his mind, jumped the bench and beat him to it.

“Settle down Charlie,” Bill told his friend, holding out a hand in an effort to calm the panic he saw. “You’ll knock the breath out of yourself if you carry on like that and then we’ll never know what the problem is. Take a deep one and then tell us what’s happened.”

“You’ve got to come quick, Willie!” Charlie gasped, flapping his hand wildly in the direction of the house and failing to breathe even when Bill reminded him. “Your phone rang and I had to pick it up, Willie, Freddie made me! You know what she’s like! Pick it up, she said. And so I did and the man on the other end, he said, he said,” his lip wobbled unsteadily and he blinked several times as if losing his train of thought. Given how little sleep he’d had and how much alcohol he’d drunk, it wasn’t beyond a reasonable possibility. “I didn’t even know you had a phone, Willie. I don’t have one yet. It’s awfully fancy. I didn’t take you for the sort to go in for all the latest technology, you’re usually-”

“Charlie,” Bill snapped, jolting the man out of his rambling and back to the task at hand.

“Oh yes, apologies,” Charlie said with a thankful glance in Bill’s direction. “But you must come right away, Willie. There’s a man on the other end of the line asking for you. He thought I was you for the first second and started rabbiting about some duke being shot, though not anyone I’ve ever heard of. Some Ferdinand chappie. Is he a friend of yours?”

William didn’t answer. Instead he set off across the garden at a run, leaving Bill and Charlie to follow on behind, his mind suddenly overtaken by the news he had no desire to hear. There was enough tension in Europe without a royal assassination and there would be no way to de-escalate the hostility if Archduke Franz Ferdinand had been shot, especially since he was supposed to be visiting Sarajevo. He just had to hope Charlie had misheard. Otherwise the war he’d feared, and been warning of, was going to erupt even sooner than he’d thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: racism, injury mention, death mention, incarceration, mention of violence

Cape Colony, South Africa  
January 19th, 1900

The night was too warm, heavy and humid and filled with after-dark noises that William still wasn’t used to, even after four months in the dreadful place. Some men, he knew, had fallen in love with the Cape Colony within days of reaching it and waxed lyrical about the more mediterranean climate but William’s skin didn’t agree with the sun, or the insects. It was his first time abroad, first experience of the wider world, first experience of war, and he had thought he was ready. High Command had thought he was ready too, but no matter how good his test scores had been or how he had distinguished himself in training, William knew he wasn’t nearly as ready as anyone thought. He understood it all on paper, could plot a battle on a map, but the realities of war seemed very different, and no one had warned him about the loneliness, or the homesickness, or the heat. 

And now, on top of everything else, he found himself managing the Queensland Imperial Bushmen, a battalion of good hearted but exceptionally rowdy and undertrained Australians. It had been dressed up as good thing, as his stepping stone to a promotion, and at first William had bought the lie, hopeful that he would move up to the rank of Captain. His father had hinted strongly that if William could prove his worth as an officer he might possibly recognise his illegitimate son in his will, and William hadn’t been able to resist that. Now, however, he seemed to be swamped with paperwork, bothered at all hours by Australian and English soldiers at odds with each other, and faced with an opposing army that seemed superior in every way to his own. His dreams of promotion and a quick end to the conflict seemed very remote indeed.

Setting his frustrations aside, William scrubbed at his face with his hands and tried to focus on the paperwork cascading over the surface of his desk. Major White kept pestering him about half a dozen reports and William had started to suspect that the man was palming work off on to him, a thought which rankled horribly, because he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He simply needed to knuckle down and get it done, he told himself, so that he could sleep, so that he could be up for parade and roll call the next morning. That was what he needed to do and he knew it. But what he wanted was a distraction.

“But it’ll work, sarge!” 

The voice that echoed down the corridor, carried to him on the stagnant night air, was so familiar that William found himself snorting with barely suppressed laughter. The accent was distinct, even amongst the other Australian soldiers, with a rhythm that put William in mind of singing. Even after so short an acquaintance he would know that voice anywhere. This would certainly count as a distraction.

“I don’t care if you think it’ll work, Private!” came the thunderous response in a broad Queensland accent. “That’s beside the point!”

“No sir, that’s the point entirely!”

William didn’t have to look up to know exactly which men were coming his way. There was only one private who dared to argue with Sergeant Llewelyn of the Queensland Imperial Bushmen, and secretly William thought the young Aboriginal soldier was braver than most of the military men he’d ever met. Especially considering how small a soldier he happened to be, and how large the sergeant was. Whilst young Private Mullen had a voice like a lullaby Sergeant Llewelyn had a voice like a bullwhip and seemed to William to be so quintessentially Australian that he’d wondered more than once whether it was an act. Not that he intended to ask the man. Llewelyn was built like a beer barrel. From the corridor he heard the sergeant groan at the continued, insistent, words of his companion. He was starting to think that Mullen had a death wish.

“It is not the point, Private! All you should care about is this: I see no evidence for your claim. There’s no intelligence to say the tracks’ve been compromised, none at all. There’ve been no daylight attacks on that railway all week, no sign of activity, and you know well enough why not because you were there when we took their stronghold!”

“But sarge-“

“And I know you were there, Private! Because I distinctly remember you disobeying orders and getting yourself in trouble! Now shut your damn fool mouth before I decide to send you to the Major instead of just your favourite lieutenant!”

“But sarge!”

William tried to force the smile from his lips as the volume of the arguing voices increased until they were just beyond his door. The proper thing to do, perhaps, would be to wait at his desk so that when the knock came he could give an imperious ‘Enter’ and make a show of inscrutable, dispassionate, disinterest. It was certainly the wiser choice, and yet even as he thought it he found himself crossing his office in swift strides so that he could open the door just as Sergeant Llewelyn raised his fist to knock. 

“Sergeant,” he said calmly in greeting, unable to hide the twitch of his lips at the man’s surprise. “And Private Mullen, I see. Again. What a surprise.”

“Lieutenant Reeves, sir!” Mullen said, giving him the sharpest salute he’d ever seen any soldier give, an act made all the more ludicrous by the fact that Mullen had become well known for his lack of enthusiasm when it came to proper shows of deference to his superiors. 

Mullen had been reprimanded far too many times already since his arrival in the new year and both William and Llewelyn knew that they’d only be able to let the behaviour slide for so long. The kid was an excellent tracker, a natural at finding the explosives the Boer planted in their path, good with a rifle, useful in a fire fight, and with a sharper mind than most of the officers William knew. But he was also insubordinate and insufferable and ended up in William’s office at least twice a week. Only William ever received something resembling a proper salute but it was rarely up to British standard and he could all but see the steam pouring from Llewelyn’s ears at his most troublesome private doing something so out of character as the sharp, perfectly on point salute. The salute was so perfect in every way as to be almost an act of rebellion in itself given Mullen’s usual slouch, and William watched the young man grin at having thrown his sergeant so badly. Ah, William thought. He’s trying to put us off balance. But why? What was he up to this time?

“Do come in, gentlemen,” William said as Mullen turned his blinding smile in his direction. He was such a charming and attractive man - all full lips and thick, long lashes and skin like polished mahogany - that William was forced to turn quickly away, before he actually began to blush and reveal the depth of his attraction. That would certainly not do, for so many reasons, especially not when Sergeant Llewelyn had come to his office to push home a point against the lad and have him reminded of his place. Fantasies of doing away with rank and propriety and kissing Private Bill Mullen would just have to wait until he was safely tucked up in bed alone, as usual. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, sir,” Mullen jumped in, showing yet again that he had little care for proper process or respect for rank. “With all due respect to the Sergeant, he and I are at odds with regard to the train load of ammunition due to arrive at the barracks in the next couple of days, and when I volunteered to go and check the line ahead of the train’s arrival, what with the Boer in this area being ingenious when it comes to blowing up our trains and me being rather good at locating said explosives when no one else seems able, he threatened me most fiercely and brought me to you for a sound thrashing.”

He said it all in one breath before the poor, beleaguered sergeant could gather his wits and William saw the man slap his palm against his face at such flagrant misconduct. William knew that the best course of action was to teach the lad a lesson to ensure the behaviour stopped but he simply could not help the reaction of his heart whenever Private Mullen spoke or smiled or looked in his direction. 

“We don’t thrash our soldiers here, Mullen. This isn’t school, it’s the army, and you’re a grown man. Well, almost.”

“Wouldn’t know, sir,” Mullen shot back, straightening from his slouch at the poke at his short stature. “Never went to school, sir.”

“Which is probably why you don’t understand even basic chain of command,” Llewelyn growled, folding his arms across his wide chest. “Or how to wind your neck in. It’s not your call, Mullen. You can’t just go wandering off, fighting your own damned war, or the Lieutenant and I will be forced to write you up for it. No matter how charming and clever and fast you think you are, you can’t dodge the rules, Mullen, or act without a direct order.”

William could see the young man was about to argue again, but he also knew the signs that told him that Llewelyn was reaching the end of his very frayed tether and knew he had to step in.

“Your sergeant is right, Mullen, there’s no two ways about it,” he said, putting as much strength behind his words as he could and actually hating that the lad jumped at how harsh the tone was. “This isn’t a one man war. That’s not how things work. We’ve given you a great deal of leniency before now, I’ll admit, because you’re new to the regiment and you’re good with explosives, and you are very good at finding traps set by the enemy, but you cannot expect to use that as an excuse to go against your sergeant. Or against me. It’s not your job to tell us what needs doing.”

“But sir, it’s obvious!” Mullen pushed and it was William’s turn to jump at the vehemence in his voice. There was a flush in his cheeks and his large, dark eyes were dancing with passion and an unspoken plea for understanding. “There’ve been no attacks on account of there being no trains but there are three due to come in over the next week! They’ll be up there, rigging the track to blow! I know it!”

William felt his temper begin to slip. Llewelyn was right. No matter how charming or clever, Mullen couldn’t be allowed to show such insubordination. An officer who wasn’t so foolishly infatuated would have written him up more than warnings before now. 

“And how do you know it, Private?” he barked, watching the young soldier’s jaw tighten as he stood his ground. 

“Because it’s what I’d do,” Mullen told him plainly. “It’s common sense.”

William wasn’t sure what he had intended to say in reply to that, nor what the sergeant might have argued, for though the man had his mouth open, ready to lay in to the boy, they were interrupted by the arrival of the Major. He was a recent arrival and William was already sure he didn’t care for the man but he was also far more aware than Mullen that it didn’t matter what he thought of his superiors, he was bound to obey their orders. That was just the way of things.

“What’s all this then?” Major White called as he walked through the open doorway, in a voice he probably thought was commanding but really only made him sound like a braying horse.

William saw Mullen’s mouth open and grabbed his arm, just as Llewelyn did the same on his other side, and their jostling at least kept the lad silent. 

“Only some trouble with a green recruit, sir,” he explained simply. “Nothing to worry about.”

He tried to sound efficient because in his experience efficiency won his betters over to his cause better than anything else. He wasn’t charming or handsome, or commanding or loud, the way men like Mullen and Llewelyn were. He was fairly good at finding things out about people and planning maneuvers and ensuring that the men under him stayed alive, but he didn’t have a way with people. Not like Mullen did, when he wasn’t pushing his luck over a hunch.

“Nothing to worry about is it, Reeves?” White snorted, looking Mullen up and down with distaste. “I heard his ruckus from my office and was most displeased I can tell you. We cannot be having this sort of to-do. Least of all from an Australian. An Aborigine,” he said with obvious distaste. “They’ve been proving themselves far more trouble than they’ve been use I’ve had word from above that we must be more firm. Now, what’s the charge?”

William tried to seem unaffected by the words and nodded along but an ache had started in his chest at the Major’s words and Mullen’s demeanour had changed until he was no longer simply slouching but attempting to hide within his uniform at the way White had sneered down at him, and at the threat of being made an example. William wished there were some way to take it from the boy’s shoulders, for he knew it was his own fault for not being firmer with him from the start, but there was nothing to be done now. Even if there hadn’t been a disagreement he had a sneaking suspicion that the Major would have found an excuse to ‘discipline’ one of the Australian volunteers. Especially one of the rare Aboriginal lads. They could only hope that the Major’s punishment was in line with the indiscretion.

“He’s just over eager, sir,” Sergeant Llewelyn stepped in to offer when William hesitated. “Just needs to learn not to speak out of turn or offer suggestions to men who know better than he. He’s young is all. It’s a first offense.”

It was a lie, and Mullen squirmed uncomfortably under the Major’s gaze but despite his discomfort and fear he couldn’t seem to help but look up defiantly when White scoffed at him.

“First offense. Is it really? Well then, I suppose leniency is called for. If it is indeed a first offense. We can’t have insubordination in the ranks going unpunished however, not when it threatens the minds and hearts of the other men. It is a serious issue and we must be seen, as I say, to be making an example. I shall have you write him up, Reeves.”

“Sir?” William looked up nervously. He’d had to hand out punishment to men for drunkenness and violence before, but never for speaking their mind in the way Mullen did. The lad was too intelligent to be a soldier, that was the real problem, and William hated to think what too harsh a punishment would do to him.

“Fourteen days in solitary confinement should teach him,” the Major said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “As I said, we cannot have him turning the heads of the other men, especially at such a crucial juncture. We’ve finally beaten back the Boer and put a stop to their filthy tactics and dynamite, new supplies and men will be with us by the end of the week, and we do not need some upstart sewing dissent when we need morale high to bring this war to a close. Two weeks is no hardship. Have him written up, Reeves. You,” he nodded at the stony face of the sergeant, “can see to the rest of it, and I would suggest that you take a firmer hand in controlling your men. And you,” he sneered down at the angry face of Private Mullen, “should thank the almighty that you are getting off so lightly. Take this time to reflect upon your conduct and to learn the virtue of silence.”

William and Llewelyn saluted awkwardly as the Major left for neither felt they could safely release their grip on Mullen, but when they were alone he only slumped in their grasp and looked down at the rough wood of the floor.

“I’m sorry to have got you in trouble sir,” he mumbled toward William. “And you, sarge. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted...”

Llewelyn sighed and assured the boy it wasn’t so bad as he was making it out but he looked far from comfortable, even if the sentence was relatively light. Mullen looked back at him once before being led away and William barely restrained his urge to run forward and protect the younger man somehow, but it was a foolish impulse, and he fought it until Mullen was gone from the room, though the despairing look he had seen in those dark, intelligent eyes remained with him.

The memory of those eyes remained with him when the reports came through that not one, but all three of the trains destined for their post were derailed as a result of Boer explosives placed beneath the tracks, and as he walked those tracks himself over the following days, examining the wreckage and watching the men repair the tracks and remove the bodies of the fallen, taken out in the derailments and the ambushes that followed, he wished he had listened. There were a few men in the battalion who were experts in munitions of the explosive sort, and one or two who were adept at tracking and finding any trace of the guerrilla fighters who had been terrorising their railways, but they seemed to have no useful information for him. There was no sign of when or how the dynamite had been placed, or how it had been timed to detonate at just the right moment. There was no way they could have prevented the attack, he was told as he stared out along the stretch of damaged track, losing his thoughts in the endless, pale sky above. No way.

The words circled in his mind, taunting him and damning him as he returned to his office and completed his paperwork - the official tally of the dead - and they continued to spiral within his skull as he delivered the names of the dead to White. There was no way they could have saved those lives. No way they could have known. The lie pounded on and on in his head and his feet made quick work of the distance between the officers’ quarters to the barracks’ cells without him being consciously aware of his actions, or the emotions that motivated them. There had been a way, only they had all been too blind, and too ignorant to appreciate it. And William’s case, too fearful of the desire he felt, to let Mullen stay too long in his presence. If he’d not been so foolish as to let his amorous fantasies blind him he would have listened to the man properly, and then he would not have had the lives of two dozen soldiers on his conscience.

Mullen was only nine days in to his sentence but William signed off on his early release in a blur before heading down the dim corridor to the solitary cells to personally relieve Mullen of his confinement, tugging at the door roughly when it at first refused to budge. He sought out those dark, fiercely intelligent eyes, unable to process the emotions roiling in his gut, unwilling to try, only knowing that he needed to make amends for the tragedy that had occurred, the lives lost. And perhaps to see the righteous accusation in the lad’s eyes, which he surely deserved for ignoring the warning and failing to stand up for Mullen when he’d been brought before him. 

He felt dread at the thought that the light might have disappeared from Mullen’s eyes but in his cell, a space barely large enough for even so diminutive a man to stretch his arms in, those umber eyes seemed to burn. His body was slumped in the corner, seemingly defeated, but those eyes, when they fixed on William’s, were hard and angry and full of passion. 

“How did you know?” William asked, shivering despite the heat, as he watched the slow grin slide on to Mullen’s cracked lips, his two front teeth peeking through, a startling, brilliant white. “How did you know about the trains?”

“Simple, sir,” Mullen whispered, his voice dry and rusted after so many days of silence. “It’s what I’d do if I was up against your lot. British Army, not known for being fast on the old uptake. Stumped by any army that comes against them with a weapon more advanced than a spear,” he sniggered without humour. “As long as they’re living those men’ll keep planting bombs. And they’ve gotten clever ‘bout it ‘cos they’ve had to be. It’s simple, sir.”

His head lolled on his neck and William made a mental note to look in to the rations given to soldiers held in solitary confinement. The lad looked weak, like he’d lost weight, which he certainly should not have done in only nine days, and so he crossed the tight space to heave Mullen to his feet, supporting him out of the cell until he had his feet firmly under him.

“I’ve cancelled the rest of your confinement, Mullen,” he told him, reluctant to remove his arm from the man’s waist even though he knew it was ridiculous. “The Major will likely make my life unbearable because of it but we need you out here and I’m willing to take the heat if it means fewer men lost to those damned rail bombs.”

Mullen looked up at him oddly, like he was trying to see past the stoic facade William was fighting to maintain, and when he smiled again William felt a stab of panic, fear that Mullen had seen too much, but he didn’t speak, nor did he pull away from the support of William’s arms. Instead he slowed his steps and leaned his weight more decidedly on his lieutenant and seemed, to any who might care to look, like a man genuinely in need of assistance, and all the while William’s skin where there bodies were pressed flush burned, even through the thick fabric of their uniforms, a desire building within him that was quite separate from the need to simply protect the men under his command. 

William had always made a point of guarding his actions with extreme care. He did not engage in even the most innocent shows of friendship, even when the other men did, for fear of somehow outing himself. It had been no great hardship, or so he had thought, for he had never known much of the platonic love of friendship or anything beyond passing lust, but he knew who and what he was, and so remained ever vigilant. At least, until Private Mullen had appeared, infuriating and enticing, offering a human connection that William wanted desperately without even understanding it. It could amount to nothing, he knew, yet he could not help but revel in his ability to walk so closely with the man, if only for a few, brief moments. 

When they reached the soldiers’ mess William finally released him, stepping back awkwardly and expecting at any moment to be teased for his earnest behaviour or stiffness, or anything else Mullen might have noticed about his person and found to be deficient. Instead the young soldier swayed on his feet and gave him a weary smile.

“I hope it’s not speaking out of turn to say thank you, sir,” he said in a low, guarded voice. “I know that most men here think I’m not worth my rations. I’m used to that. My father was white man, my mother was of the Badjiri people. I never fit in nowhere and I’m used to being looked down on for the colour of my skin.” His breath hitched and he swallowed deliberately as if trying to clamp down on the words that were trying to escape. “What I’m not so used to is anyone doing me a kindness. So thank you, Lieutenant Reeves, sir. If you’ll allow me a little while to eat then I’ll happily go over the railway tracks, sir. I know I can track them down and show how they’re doing it, sir. I can.”

It hadn’t occurred to William that the boy felt the need to prove himself, or that he would be facing harsh treatment from the other men for his heritage, but once the words were spoken it seemed obvious and he made a note to be more watchful in the future, to ensure that such behaviour was stamped out. He glanced once at Mullen but could not hold his gaze. His brain was trying to tell him that the wide eyed looks Mullen was giving him were somehow directed at him in a personal, intimate, way, which was of course ridiculous, and so instead he focused on a point just above the man’s head as he addressed him once more.

“When you are fed and have cleaned yourself up you will report to my office, Mullen, and we shall discuss your suspicions about the railways in more detail. I appreciate your candor in telling me about the ill-treatment you have received here, and about your parentage, and shall speak with the sergeants and corporals to ensure that bullying of this sort will not happen again. You are a member of the British Forces now, Mullen. And a valued member at that. I only hope that your time in solitary hasn’t caused you to lose your cheek. That would be a great shame.”

He had tried to maintain a measured, distant, tone of voice as he spoke but it failed him at the last, especially when Mullen tilted his chin up at the mention of being valued, as if he’d never heard anything like it. William even found himself smiling when the whisper of a grin swept across the man’s lips, but the moment didn’t last long. 

He stepped back and bit the inside of his cheek as Private Mullen gave a perfect salute before walking back to his office as quickly as he could. He would need to be on his guard, he reminded himself. Private Mullen was far too easy to fall for, and he needed to keep a clear head. They were in the middle of a war after all and for all his seeming contrition and mended manners he had no doubt that Mullen would continue to cause him regular headaches, especially once he was granted special permission to keep the tracks clear and learn how to counter the Boer explosives. 

William groaned as he reached the safety of his office and shut the door behind him. Private Mullen was going to be the death of him.


	3. Chapter 3

28th June, 1914

_“I swear by this earth, Reeves, if you kill yourself on that damned bike, speeding up to London on the whim of that damned Lord, I will follow you to hell just to beat you in for being a fool and never listening. You hear me?”_

~~~~

As he sped along the narrow, tree-lined road, the words played over and over in Will’ head. Bill hadn’t wanted him to go, hadn’t liked that he’d rushed off when they had a house full of guests, certainly hadn’t liked the fact that instead of a lazy day of recovery and a night spent in their shared bed, Will given him only the barest of kisses before running out to his motorcycle with a hastily packed satchel of clothes, more interested in the braying of lords and officers and his growing obsession with the social unrest in Europe.

_“I swear, Reeves...”_

The words repeated themselves over again as Will remembered the anger and fire in Bill’s eyes as he followed him out of the house. Bill didn’t often call him Reeves, it was usually either a sign of anger or a requirement of their situation, and it had caused Will’s head to jerk up from where he had been settling himself on to his bike, unprepared for an argument, less prepared still for the aggressive kiss that met his lips instead. Bill had grabbed the collar of his shirt roughly in one hand and the scruff of his neck in the other, and despite the roughness of the action William surrendered himself willingly to it. After a handful of moments, when he felt some of the tension fade from his lover’s body, Will reached up to tangle his hand in Bill’s thick, sun-kissed hair, feeling strangely enlivened by the reversal of their positions, for it wasn’t usual for him to reach up to Bill. He craned his neck and pressed their foreheads together, breathing deep and willing the man to calm himself, calming his own rapidly beating heart in the process. It was vitally important that he get to London as soon as possible but he couldn’t leave without reassuring his husband (no matter how new or secret their union might be) that all would be well.

“Bill,” he murmured, shifting until he had drawn the man more closely in to his arms, so that his chin could rest on Bill’s right shoulder. Will needed him to hear his words as clearly as possible. “It will be alright, dear heart. It’s only to London. The same as I’ve done a hundred times. I’ll head in, see what the fuss is about, tell Grey what to say so he can get Parliament off his back, so that he can get on with his fly fishing, and I can get back to you. It will probably turn out to be nothing, you know what they’re like? Calling me at all hours because their grasp of German is so primitive they’ve mixed up their wants and their wills and misinterpreted half a dozen documents. I probably won’t even need the change of clothes. I’ll be back before you have a chance to miss me.”

Will knew that he had become a very adept liar over the years but he hated misleading Bill, and knew, from the deep concern he saw etched on to the man’s face as he pulled away, that the words didn’t quite ring true.

“I doubt that,” was all he said but he allowed Will to draw him in to a slow, tender kiss all the same. “Just take it easy on the roads, if you could.”

There was so much he was refusing to say, fears sparked by the very real concern and panic he had seen in Will as the news of the Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination had come to him down the telephone line, but there just wasn’t the time to explain the situation to the satisfaction of both men. It would have to wait.

“It’ll be alright, Bill. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he lied one last time as he sat back on the motorcycle and made ready to depart. “I’ll be back by tomorrow night at the latest.”

~

Will bit his lip as he thought back over the words, easing up on the throttle as he pulled out of a turn. Bill was always grousing about his bike, that was nothing new, but Will knew it was safe. Bill was the one to service it after all, after every journey. Still, it payed to be careful, and he tried to stop his speed from creeping up too greatly. He had promised to get there in one piece after all and as ridiculous as it seemed he didn’t doubt that Bill would attempt to follow him if he misjudged a bend and ended his life in an ugly ball of flame and broken metal.

One of the first fire fights they’d gone in to together Bill had promised to follow him to hell and William really didn’t want to see the threat come to pass. For all his husband’s show of bravado and stability there was a well of fear deep within, a fragility that Will knew he was guardian of, even if they never spoke openly of it. Bill worried for Will’s safety, and always would, and Will worried for Bill’s in return. And if that worry had helped them survive this far he supposed it had to be a good thing in its own way, but he still hated to think of Bill, trying to appear unaffected and at ease in front of the the guests still in their home, while the stress built up within him. Bill’s hearing seemed to get worse in times of stress, and though he only described it as an irritating ringing in his right ear, William knew that it could be distressing for him. He had coped incredibly well after it became apparent that the loss of hearing in his left ear was permanent, but it had changed him, and Will hated to see fear in his love’s eyes.

There was little he could do about such things whilst en route to London however, and he focused instead on the road, and the problems he knew would be facing him once he arrived. For all his reassurances to Bill that there was little to worry over, in truth the situation had William running scared. When he’d been told over the telephone by his superior in Military Intelligence about the assassination, how a Bosnian Serb had been arrested for the crime, he knew that there was likely to be a severe diplomatic crisis, and one which would need careful handling. Charlie had been staring at him wide-eyed throughout the call, or possibly just at the telephone itself, and Will knew that to men like Charlie, and indeed to most people, the idea that these events would effect their fair home was preposterous. Will knew he’d likely spend the next day trying to convince his betters to take care in their involvement and do what they could to de-escalate the situation, and knew equally well that they would likely ignore him. The best he could hope for was a local, short-lived war in which Russia did not take part, and he made a mental note to contact their diplomats in the region as soon as he reached the London office.

He increased his speed as the road ahead straightened and tried to ignore the words in his head that were telling him to ease up and slow down, Bill’s words. It was ironic surely that Bill Mullen, a man who would only slow down when threatened with a stay in solitary confinement (and sometimes even that hadn’t worked) should be the voice of reason in his head, and Will found his speed increasing instead. The threat of conflict, the throb of adrenaline in his blood, was beginning to rise, and he was powerless to reign it in when moving so fast, especially on only a few hours sleep. Bill would forgive him, he decided, especially if he could arrive early, satisfy his superiors quickly, execute his work in good time and be back on the road by the following morning. That was his goal. It was unlikely that anyone would listen to his opinion on the matter in any case, so he would make quick work of it and then return home without delay. His initial fear upon hearing of the Archduke’s assassination was already fading as he reasoned with himself, and he headed toward London feeling confident that the situation could be swiftly managed. One day, he told himself. One day and he’d be back home, making up for lost time with his long-term lover and new husband. One day, he told himself. Two at the most.

~~~~

William looked out across the tranquil waterway and tried to let it calm him. It was a beautiful day, tranquil and mild, the only sounds the gentle flow of the water and the birds calling to one another in the trees. And the occasional whip of the fly line. That was the reason he couldn’t relax and truth he had spent the last few minutes imagining how he would use that line to garrote the man standing a few feet away from him. He had spent the last two days in crisis, had been in contact with every nation between Russia and France, and spoken so many languages that by the time he’d been summoned to Lord Gray’s side to explain the situation his brain had barely been able to summon any English and his own language felt foreign.

“Don’t wast my time with your military jargon, Captain,” the viscount called over his shoulder, his attention mostly taken by the line in his hands. “You know me, I want the facts of the matter, not the intrigue I know your other employers are paying you for.”

Will grimaced and his eyes darted about his surroundings, searching for eves droppers no matter how unlikely it seemed. Nothing annoyed him more that the casual mentioning of his other employment and he had reminded the Foreign Secretary more times than he cared to count that he should not even infer that Will was still employed by the military, but the man was a fool in so many ways. 

“The facts, My Lord,” he snapped, sharpening his voice enough to make the man jump and turn his head. “Are that Austria-Hungary are on the verge of declaring war on Serbia. Russia has already mobilised her military. Germany have drafted an ultimatum which they know will be ignored by Russia. As of today the French have prepared to mobilise as their forces well, in accordance with their pact with Russia. We are at war. My Lord.”

Lord Grey turned at that, frowning at William as he gathered in his line methodically before giving his full attention. 

“‘We,’ Captain? You have made no mention of Britain to me in all of this. I have heard no declaration of war, Captain. And if I, this great nation’s Foreign Secretary, has heard no word of it, how could it be so?”

“Well I doubt the fish have the same level of intel, My Lord,” Will heard himself say, the words slipping out before he could regulate them. It was exactly the sort of thing Bill would have said and despite the outrage growing in Grey’s eyes, William carried on. “And as military advisor to the Foreign Secretary it is my duty and pleasure to be the first to inform you that we are at war in all but name. The formal declarations are inevitable. I expect to hear them within the month.”

The viscount tried to stalk toward him in an intimidating manner but the effect was somewhat ruined by bogginess of the river bank and by the fact that William stood several inches taller than him. He rarely went out of his way to use his height to intimidate, there were better ways to convince people or tender information, but there were times when the ability to loom was an asset and he employed it now, stopping the viscount in his tracks.

“The liberals will be against a war,” the man said eventually, though there was less certainty in his voice than before. “They shall say we have enough problems of our own here at home.”

“They were saying that,” William agreed, though he did not back down or relax his stance. “Many have now been swayed. And when Germany invades Belgium Britain shall be forced to act. We shall have no choice.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The viscount was staring at him incredulously and Will was struck by the absurdity of the situation as he watched two birds swoop low over the river, dancing together on the breeze as if there was not a care to be had in the world. For the past ten years he had become used to conducting conversations such as these in thick-walled rooms, behind closed doors, but the Foreign Secretary could rarely be persuaded that the pressing matters of his position were more important than fishing, and so here William was, trying to brief the man on facts he should already know, surrounded by water and birds and trees. 

“We have a pact with Belgium, My Lord,” he explained, again. “We defend her neutrality against the larger powers that surround her. In addition to which, we have a pact with France. You yourself oversaw it.” But I managed it and executed it, Will added privately. 

“Not a written pact,” Grey countered. “Not a public pact.”

“No,” he ceded carefully. “But as a gentleman I put my word to it. And I did so on your behalf. Trust me, My Lord, when I tell you, that we are at war in all but name if some miracle does not happen soon. Two weeks, three at the most, and we shall have to declare it.” 

A cloud slunk across the sun, casting a shadow across the river and the two men standing stoic and straight backed, out of place in such pleasant splendour. Once Will had found it a straightforward matter to obey the chain of command and do what he was told to do, but he felt now that he was reaching the end of his rope. The older he got the more clearly he saw that the men with power had not earned it through superior intellect, bravery, or merit. Usually, much to Will’s chagrin, it came down to wealth and title and birth. The man standing before him, already distracted from their conversation by his tangled fly, had all three of those things and had enjoyed reminding William of his illegitimate birth too many times over the years. He got on Will’s nerves and he felt no loyalty to him. When he returned to London he would pay a short visit to his commanding officer in the intelligence department, to explain his situation and ask for a change of position, and then he intended to go home.

Bill would be proud of his lack of respect for his betters, he was sure of it.

~~~~

Days later, concentrating hard on appearing still and calm, William sat at his desk in the Foreign Office and held the ear piece of the telephone as steadily as he was able. It seemed like weeks since he’d last had a decent night’s sleep and he worried that the men and women around him in the shared office space would be able to see how the exhaustion was taking its toll. What he wanted more than anything was to return home, to his bed and to Bill, but knew it was not to be. All he had was the telephone, which was a very poor substitute indeed. Will hated that necessity forced him to make this call in a public space, without any privacy. He hated that he needed to make such a call at all but the situation was getting complicated and he had a job to do. Bill would understand, he always did.

Of course it wasn’t simply the fact that he was calling home that had him on edge, it was having to make a call to anyone when he couldn’t guarantee the line, and when there were too many people in the vicinity who could potentially be eavesdropping. Mystery and suppression were part of his mind and make-up and he took pains at every level of his life to preserve his secrets and to keep his personal life hidden. Men suspected of homosexuality were given no leniency in England, and a man suspected of being a spy abroad could be afforded even less in some countries. He had become very adept at hiding himself. He was aware that occasionally his need for control, especially his method of travel and communication, tended toward the over-cautious and even paranoid, but it had kept both he and Bill alive and it was not a habit he could see himself breaking. Calling home seemed such a betrayal of every rule he tried to maintain to ensure the safety of his personal life, yet it had to be done, and that knowledge rankled.

There was a click as the call was answered and Will sat up straighter and took a deep, steadying breath as he ran through his rehearsed words in his head one more time.

“Asphodel Meadows,” came the suspicious voice down the crackling line and inwardly Will smiled. Bill was wary of the telephone and rarely answered it. The contraption had been installed at the expense of the Intelligence Service and every call that had ever come through had been for William, usually summoning him to London at short notice, which Bill, naturally, wasn’t keen on. His suspicion, it seemed, was well founded, given what Will had to tell him, but it was neither the time nor the place for the sadness that was welling up in him and so Will held the emotion back from his voice as he spoke.

“Mullen, good to hear you. It’s Reeves.”

“Ah,” Bill said, his understanding immediate. Will could practically hear the man straighten his spine as he too slipped in to character. “Captain Reeves, sir. What can I do for you, sir?”

Will nodded. What he wanted was to reach through the wires somehow and hug his husband tight, to show that he was grateful and that he loved him so very much, but he let none of that show and pursed his lips instead, fighting to keep his voice even and neutral. “I’m afraid this business is going to require more of my time than I initially anticipated.”

“Oh, I see, sir.” Bill’s voice seemed to dull upon hearing those words and William didn’t blame him. While they hadn’t planned anything so presumptive as a honeymoon or holiday, they had both hoped to spend the days after their wedding in quiet enjoyment of each other. Legal or not, they had surely earned some small slice of calm. The world, it seemed, thought differently. “That is a shame, sir. What would you like me to do, sir?”

William hated the disappointment he heard in Bill’s voice, hated it more for being so tightly contained, but swallowed the apology that was threatening to escape his lips.

“I will be heading out from here tomorrow and do not know at this point in time how long I shall be away. There is business to attend to and acquaintances to see in Brussels as well as the errands set me by the office here. They all appear trifling individually (and rather tedious if I’m honest, Mullen) but I fear they shall add up quite quickly and make for a lengthy series of errands.”

There was a crackle of static down the line and William couldn’t tell how Bill was reacting to the news until he heard an uncertain intake of breath.

“Did you need me to forward any papers or personal effects to you, Captain Reeves, sir?”  
To anyone else Bill may have sounded irritated or bored but Will knew that it was emotion tightening the man’s throat.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to go without this time, Mullen,” he replied with a jovial smile that he most definitely didn’t feel. “Things are set to be busy for some time unfortunately. I was mostly calling to-” to apologise, he thought, and to tell you again how much I love you. They were the words he wished he could say aloud, but knew he couldn’t. Everything that they were, everything they had together was illegal and he couldn’t risk even the slightest suspicion falling on them. He steadied his voice again before continuing but hoped that Bill could sense the words he wasn’t saying, and why. “I was... I was just calling to inform you, Bill. There were important... things,” he floundered, “to be done around the estate and the farm is in the midst of it’s busiest season. And I know you manage the farm and the estate and the house - everything - perfectly well without me but I thought it best to inform you of my absence.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Bill said quietly. Will waited, sure that there was more to come, and after a significant pause Bill continued. “I hope it’s a pleasant journey. And a short one. Sir. For your sake. Sir. There’s no need to trouble yourself over the farm or the house. Everything will be just fine. Sir.”

The goodbyes were awkward, more stilted than William could remember them ever being, and when he hung the ear piece back on the hook he felt drained in a way that the travel and meetings of the past couldn’t match. Bill loved him, Will knew that to be true even if he didn’t understand how it was possible, but he also knew he needed to make it up to his lover somehow. Perhaps, he thought wryly, between his meetings in France and Germany and his other, more covert, reconnaissance, there would be time to pick up a box of chocolates. If not he would have to think up a way to make it up to the man he loved. It wasn’t often that they were parted for longer than a week at a time, neither coped well without the other anymore and his one consolation was that, given the current political climate, he would at least have to be quick. One week, he told himself. He’d get it all done in a week and be back to Bill in eight days, no more.

~~~~

Berlin, Germany  
17th July, 1914

Two weeks later, twenty since his wedding day, William sped along a narrow Berlin street toward the station and the waiting freight train, swerving around a group of laughing, blithe, soldiers and giving them a salute as he went by on the bike he’d obtained upon entering the country. The men laughed and one gave him a wave, seeing only an identically dressed German soldier, sat jauntily on a German motorcycle, confident and carefree with a grin showing plainly beneath his fashionable moustache.

The men at the war office had smiled at him as well, had been pleased to see him after his ‘time away caring for his father’, and the pretty girl working in the file store had smiled at him quite particularly. She’d chattered away as he’d sorted through the files, about her older sister’s wedding and how she wished she had a gentleman to woo her the way her new brother-in-law had done for her sister. She hadn’t been subtle and Will had felt a twinge of guilt at leading her on, even if she had done most of the work herself, and so pressed a reluctant kiss to her cheek on his way back out of the door, a file tucked under his arm. He would need to ensure that he never had cause to interact with her again, he decided. He couldn’t risk her giving his likeness to the police, nor did he want suspicion to be cast on her when important documents were found to be missing.

He could see the train waiting at the station as he approached, as he knew it would be, and increased his speed, shooting along the quiet platform until he spotted a freight carriage with its wide door left partially open. He drove inside, breaking sharply, leapt from the bike and covered it quickly with a lightweight cover that he pulled from a small compartment strapped to the side. It was a maneuver he had perfected long ago and he worked with silent precision, knowing that he couldn’t take any chances.

His heart was beating fast but as the moments trickled by and no alarm was sounded, he gave himself permission to relax. His superiors back at both Military Intelligence and the Foreign Office had refused to believe his assertions that the German army intended to employ the fabled Shleiffen Plan upon the outbreak of war but now he had hard proof - a detailed outline of the plan itself - and he could begin the long journey back to England to prove that Germany intended to disregard Belgium’s neutrality and invade France. Such an act would prove that the Serbian crisis was simply an excuse for Germany to flex her muscles and make a claim at a European empire. It was the evidence he needed to be taken seriously.

Will sat back against the rough wood wall of the car and closed his eyes, breathing deep to calm his nerves and racing mind, but it was hard to come down from this kind of adrenaline rush, and he couldn’t relax entirely, not when he was hiding out in a German freight train, wearing a stolen German uniform. He shifted further into the shadows, tucking his body in to the very corner of the car and tilting his head down to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. There were footsteps outside on the platform a few minutes later and Will caught himself holding his breath as the door to the car was slid across, plunging him in to a musty sort of darkness.

He closed his eyes against it, allowing himself the smallest grin at such a seemingly absurd and childish action. But behind his eyelids was light and colour rather than darkness, and he played back the memory of his wedding, concentrating on remembering as many details as he could, until he judged that the train had moved beyond the city and that it was safe to relax. It had been the most perfect day; warm enough not to need a jacket but not so warm as to be uncomfortable outside in the sunshine. And the sun had shone so brilliantly, dancing among the leaves of the trees as they’d stood together, hands held tightly, their friends forming a circle around them... It had been almost like a dream, something which could not possibly be real, and as he thought over it again he couldn’t help but remember the leaves as impossibly green, the sky bluer than any masterpiece ever painted, the land around them more picturesque than it could have realistically been. And Bill, of course, beyond perfect in such a setting.

Will smiled as he summoned the image of his lover to his mind. He loved Bill’s bronze skin, the way it shone in the sunlight, and with the emotions he showed so shamelessly. And he loved the man’s dark curls and the way they always turned gold in the summer, like a crown bestowed by the sun. He adored his full lips and the way his front teeth were always on the verge of peeking through, a smile always ready to pierce the darkness of the William’s days. He loved his voice, forever on the cusp of singing, or so it seemed to Will, and the way he argued and laughed and charmed people with such ease, and such innocence.

Will squeezed his eyes shut as he brought his mind back to their wedding day, eternally grateful that Bill had worn him down until he agreed to what had initially seemed like a ludicrous proposal. Bill had worn a cream suit, and he a navy one. Bill had refused the tie, pulling a petulant face at the strip of innocent fabric and refusing to let Will tie it for him, and as a result Will had spent a good portion of the day admiring his husband’s neck and collar, delighted that his lover was unshackled by the useless fripperies of their society. It made him smile to think of it, of how easily his thoughts and feelings fell in to a poetical, romantic shape and form when he allowed himself to recognise how deeply in love he was. Such thoughts allowed him to pretend that he was something other than a soldier, or a spy, or a bureaucrat.

Not that he felt a need for a life too drastically different from his own - he would not have met Bill if he hadn’t been a military man, but at times he wished he had been able to retire from the army when the war had ended in 1902. The house however had come with expenses, and the ever present threat that the farm would fail to turn a profit, and it had seemed prudent at the time to accept the position in Military Intelligence, and then the additional post with the Foreign Office. Neither required him to work solely in London, which had seemed a good fit, though he was beginning to wish there wasn’t quite such a lot of traveling involved. It hadn’t always been so overwhelming. Life had once been a steady, logical stream of events that he was required to document and observe, but now events seemed to be piling one on top of the other in a suffocating mess and he knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that the war which was even now breaking would engulf them all, whether they wished it to or not.

Germany was spoiling for a fight and would not be dissuaded and Reeves couldn’t help but recall his history books from his years at the military academy and dread the thought of a re-living of the Napoleonic empire building that had nearly ripped their continent to shreds. His more recent study in to the deeper effects of his own nation’s empire building was further proof of the danger of Germany’s attitude to her neighbours. William knew he had been actively involved in the suppression of native peoples and had seen the damage done first hand. Added to that he had the stories Bill had told him, of what it had done to his own people, his family, to be conquered and enslaved by a foreign power, all in the name of empire and dominance. The sum total of it all made him rather sick, a feeling made worse by the rocking of the train on the uneven tracks, and he took several measured breaths in an attempt to settle both his stomach and mind.

Bill had berated him on more than one occasion for trying to take the weight of the world’s problems on his shoulders but it was a difficult burden to relinquish after spending a dozen years learning the world’s secrets, and its pain. A deep inhalation suddenly turned in to a yawn and Will winced at the sharp crack of his jaw. He was getting old and felt far older than his years. His collar ached from the pull of the scar tissue there and across his shoulders and back. His lower back and feet ached in protest of the position he’d forced himself in to and the ill-fitting boots he’d been wearing for the last week. At least, he told himself, it was all nearly over. He had visited Russia, Austro-Hungary, and Serbia, and could confirm that none were willing to settle their grudges diplomatically. Now he was finally on his way out of Germany. All he had left to do was meet with a official in Luxembourg, report to his contacts at the French intelligence service, get back to Belgium, and then he’d be practically home. He just hoped that no one made an official declaration of war while he was still on the continent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: War, injury, blood, near death, grieving, pain, guns, explosions, grenades, violence

February 25th, 1900

The Cape, South Africa

The sound of gunfire was so loud, so near, that Bill found himself constantly glancing down to check his chest for holes as he ran desperately for the cover of the British held ridge. He knew it was foolish and damned dangerous to constantly be looking down when he should be looking straight ahead but he couldn’t seem to help it. The air felt like it was punching him and his heart was crawling up his throat like it was desperate to get out and he didn’t blame it because his lungs felt on fire! This had never happened before, not in a fire fight, not even in the worst, and he’d been in some doozies since arriving at the Cape. This fear was old. It was the fear that lived in the back of the tack room, that dark corner that smelt of copper and sweat soaked leather, and heavy doors with a dozen bolts, of childhood screams and tears, and he tried to force the memories and feelings from his mind as he concentrated on the fuse line and his feet but it wouldn’t leave completely. He’d never reacted to gunfire with this sort of panic before but then again, he reasoned as a series of bullets whizzed through the dry air just above his head, he’d never really been on the losing side before.

Now men were falling like blow flies all around him and his eyes were prickling and he couldn’t tell for the life of him whether it was from the dust or from tears, but he couldn’t seem to close them, not even to blink. He reached the stone outcrop he’d been aiming for and turned back to double check that the line was still intact. The panic would all be for nothing if after all his precautions, and all the running, it had come loose somehow. There was no way he was going back to fix it. He lifted his head a little higher, trying to get a decent look, but it was next to impossible and he was just going to have to trust his luck.

“You idiot, get down!” came a call from his left, and a second later a body slammed in to him, sending them both sprawling in the dust and scrubby grass as a shell whistled overhead, less than a breath from where he’d been standing.

Another body crashed against him as the ridge above shattered and rained down shards of stone, and Bill tried to shake the ringing out of his ears in the aftermath of the blast, though the ground still seemed to be trembling beneath his hands. He tried to move, to roll away, only to find his body completely smothered, and the panic escalated for a moment as his breathing stuttered and the tears returned, threatening to fall because he couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t run away. His legs twitched under the weight but instead of stone his knee collided with something softer, and a hysterical giggle escaped his lips when he heard a pained grunt and discovered the cause to be Llewelyn, who had fallen across his legs, and Reeves who had fallen on his chest. They had both shielded his body with their own to save him from the blast, and the giggling continued uncontrollably for another minute as he struggled to process their actions.

“I swear, Mullen! If you get yourself killed I shall be so bloody cross with you!” he heard the lieutenant shout in his ear as he maneuvered himself down on to the grass, and Bill felt his heart jolt painfully in his chest at the affection in the man’s voice, even if his words were delivered at volume and in anger.

“Same goes for you then, sir,” Bill shot back, nerves still thrumming, catching Reeves’ eye and giving him a impetuous grin, whilst behind him the Sergeant barked with laughter as he crawled around to match their position. “And you best bet I’ll follow you to hell and drag you bloody back.”

He missed what Reeves tried to say in response as their position was blasted again by shell fire but even the shaking of the ground couldn’t restore the fear Bill had felt only a few minutes before. If he was going to have any chance of surviving this fight it was going to be courtesy of the two men either side of him. He was a fair shot but Llewelyn was the sort of man to never miss and Reeves could read a landscape and a battle like a book he already knew the ending to. They were an impressive team and Bill’s mind flooded with relief at having them by.

“What were you even doing out there, Private?” Reeves yelled as he dodged above the ridge line to fire off several shots before ducking back down. “I know you’re bloody mad, but even for you that was insane. Explain yourself!”

Bill grinned. In the last month he’d been threatened with solitary confinement three times for stepping out of line but they’d never followed through on it, not after the first time. No one else seemed to be able to track the Boer’s footsteps to discover where they were planting their bombs beneath the railway tracks, only Bill seemed able; they needed him and he knew it. Of course Llewelyn had shaken him so hard he’d bitten through his tongue when he realised that Bill hadn’t just dug up and deactivated the explosives but had also reburied a couple along the path he knew the Boer’s would be taking when they came to stake out the line the next day, but his plan had worked and they couldn’t argue with that. Well, Llewelyn had tried and Reeves had made a show of shouting at him, but he’d done it where he knew the Major wouldn’t overhear and interfere, and the look he’d given Bill hadn’t been a properly angry one.

In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell himself that the lieutenant didn’t at least sense the fire that was building between them. At first Bill had forced himself to swallow the feelings as best he could. He’d never been much good at hiding his emotions or his affections but he’d tried his best, he really had, until he’d seen how fiercely Lieutenant Reeves blushed whenever Bill paid him even the slightest bit of attention. After that Bill’d gone out of his way to make the man flush red, saluting him like he was Bill’s personal god, grinning and catching his eye at every opportunity, finding reasons to speak alone with him, whatever he could manage, and as he’d pushed Reeves’ buttons his own passion for the man had grown.

Reeves looked to Bill like the sort of white man who’d never been held or sung to sleep as an infant. There was a tightness about the way he held himself, and a reserve that went beyond even the straight laced way most of the British had about them, and so Bill had tried touching him, making it seem accidental (the first time at least), just a gentle brush of his fingertips against the Lieutenant’s wrist as he showed him the Boer’s jerry-built detonators, and Reeves had practically jumped out of his skin. Bill had made a point of it after that, finding ways to press his bare skin to Reeves’ even if it was only fingertips, and had watched the way the man’s body language changed, and the look in his eyes. When once he had held himself away at all costs, looking genuinely pained by the contact, after a few weeks he had begun to lean in to the potential touch, before Bill even made a move, and his eyes had held a longing in them that made Bill’s heart sing and a warmth pool in his groin.

It had nearly come to a head the night before, when he had called Bill in to his office to inform him that he was a candidate for promotion to corporal. He had moved his hand toward Bill’s, as if seeking the contact without being conscious of it and in answer Bill had let his fingers brush Reeves’ palm and watched the man shiver before he’d recalled himself with a jolt and hurried away behind his desk. Bill couldn’t believe that he would actually be considered for corporal, no one in their right mind would promote him, which meant that it had to be a ruse, and that in itself was exciting.

He wondered whether he dared approach Reeves again, to touch him a second time. In truth his fingertips were buzzing, as if he’d held them too close to the fire, the sensitivity almost painful, but he’d stopped himself before he could do anything rash. There was something between them but he knew it would be dangerous to try for more. For all he knew Reeves was completely unaware of his body’s interest. There was a chance that he would react violently to any recognisable advance, and Bill didn’t want to be arrested and tried for simply acting on his sexual and romantic interest.

Even when, after Bill had been dismissed and given Reeves a salute so sharp it made the man blush, and Reeves leaned in as if to kiss him, Bill had refused to give way to the hope simmering within his chest. He’d waited and watched, seen the way Reeves moved forward, eyes hooded and gaze intense, but he hadn’t made any move to meet him half way. They’d hovered there for a moment, lips so close to touching, before Reeves seemed to recover himself, blinking and stammering a good night, the blush leaving his cheeks to cascade out across every inch of him that Bill could see, staining his white skin a deep, bashful, pink all the way to his stiff collar. He had refused to believe that Reeves was aware of his attraction that night, but now, in the daylight, seeing the way the lieutenant was looking at him; alert and fierce and overflowing with desire and affection, Bill allowed the hope to grow.

“Well, sir,” he recalled himself to the fuse in his hand and the officer staring at him with an intensity that scalded his skin. “I was just laying this is all.”

He lit a match on the rock by Reeves’ head with a flourish, more of a flourish than was strictly necessary if he was honest, and lit the fuse still in his hand. He lay it hurriedly and then watched, hypnotised by the flare of the fuse and the way it moved, like it was dancing along the line, snaking its way toward the enemy with measured patience. It always got him, the slow burn, and the anticipation of the explosion. It was like an addiction. He’d watched enough of the old men back home drink themselves to death and seen the need in their eyes, the itch of their fingers, the way they wet their lips in anticipation of the poison, and figured he had the same craving for the flame, for lighting things and seeing them burn and blow. He tried to hide it, like he tried to hide so much of himself, because he worried it’d be another reason for the army to reject him and send him home, another way for the world to tell him he wasn’t worthy or human or whole, but it was a hard thing to keep hidden, especially in a war when there was an abundance of dynamite and his skills could be of such use.

He blinked, tried to focus on the wider scene, but his eyes were drawn back to the tiny spark as it travelled along the bloodied earth. There were no clouds above, no shade to highlight the small point of burning fuse, but he still worried that one of the enemy would see it coming and try to shoot it out. Beside him Llewelyn was taking shots at where the Boer had retreated behind the stones at the other end of their short valley, aiming quickly, firing a few rounds, and then ducking back down, swearing viciously every time there was a returned volley of fire. Further along, where the ground was flatter and the valley opened out in to a wider plain, men were still engaged closely, firing at each other from behind rocks and the corpses of fallen horses but Bill knew they needed to stay where they were for the moment at least, to ensure that the Boer didn’t have a chance to circle around and surround them. Reeves had explained it to him the night before, that British forces had been bested because of that particular tactic, and because the Boer fought in a way that the military academies hadn’t prepared them for.

Bill thought it was odd, the idea that wars and battles would be fought according to some formula or guideline, but Reeves had seemed to think it was perfectly normal, and that the enemy were peculiar for choosing to fight in a way that they knew the British wouldn’t suspect. He glanced over at his lieutenant at the memory of their conversation and grinned when he saw how wide Reeves’ eyes were as he followed the path of the fuse as it neared its destination.

“Where did you get the supplies for this, Mullen?” he asked, so quietly that Bill almost missed the words. He looked concerned more than anything but Bill couldn’t see why he should be so, though he didn’t give Bill much chance to reply before he continued speaking, his voice full of wonder and something akin to horror. “Remind me to backdate a requisition order when we get back to the barracks. If we get back. We have talked about this, Private. You could get in to serious trouble, stealing munitions.”

“I didn’t steal them!” Bill retorted, confused and hurt. “They’re our munitions, we’re supposed to use them. And no one stopped me or told me I couldn’t. I’m not a thief!” He believed the words as he said them but Reeves turned to look at him with such unease that his cheeks began to heat and he knew that Reeves made a fair point, there could be trouble off the back of his actions. He also knew that he wouldn’t have received the requisition order if he’d asked for it because despite proving again and again that he knew what he was doing and could be a true asset, no one seemed to believe him or trust him, not even Lieutenant Reeves. Such a truth hurt, but it wasn’t a new truth, or a new pain, and so he shut his mouth tight and tried to hide the heartache he felt.

Reeves made as if to argue but the sight of the fuse reaching its destination caught the corner of Bill’s eye and he jerked his head around to watch, and Reeves did the same. He lifted himself a little higher, to better see the blast, and as the dynamite ignited so too did his smile. The boulders that made up the Boer’s ridge seemed to lift in to the air like bubbles, suddenly weightless, before there was a terrific flash of light and a deafening boom that sent ripples through the earth and air. He felt Reeves tug him downwards and ducked for cover, his head pressed (quite by accident) against the lieutenant’s shoulder as the entire side of the ridge exploded outwards. Once again rock and debris rained down upon them, and he felt Reeves give a shaky breath.

“You bloody idiot,” Llewelyn yelled, somewhere off to the right, but the air was thick with dust and Bill couldn’t tell, in the aftermath of the blast, exactly where his voice was coming from. “You bloody, stupid, god-damned idiot! Where the hell did you get those explosives? What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Strange, Bill thought as the words drifted through the soup that was the air around him and the ringing of his ears, that he could hear Lieutenant Reeves’ heartbeat and the harsh shudder of his breath, and yet couldn’t discern a single other sound clearly. A rather large portion of Bill’s brain wished to stay as he was, pressed against Reeves with his head on the man’s shoulder and chest. Reeves even had an arm slung over him, as if to protect him from the blast, and a sudden desire to grab the man by his shirt and kiss him shot through his veins, but Bill knew that the feeling was mostly adrenaline, and would be an act of suicide were he to act upon it. The other part of his brain wanted nothing more than to leap up and behold the damage he had wrought, and that part won out as he scrambled out from the circle of Reeves’ arms and stood to get a proper view of the carnage.

The blown bodies weren’t pleasant. Bill wasn’t particularly keen on killing, but the sight of the shattered stones - rock torn apart like dough before the baking - was thrilling, and he crowed victorious at the ruptured earth, drunk on the rush that explosives always provided. Llewelyn was still swearing viciously, firing his rifle at a near constant rate, but Bill could only see the burnt and blackened ground, the scorched fragments of stone, the dust that had once been solid rock which now hung in the air. He turned to look down at where Reeves had been lying, to show him, to prove to him that he was worth the having, but the man was not on the ground where he had left him, but up and standing, moving toward him, terror in his eyes.

The first bullet grazed Bill’s shoulder, tearing the fabric of his uniform and his skin but missing its true mark thanks to the shove that Reeves gave him. His mouth opened in a silent cry of both distress and alarm, eyes wide, fear flooding his veins as if the gash left by the bullet had given it an opening, but Reeves only stared back, his own eyes tight with pain, his mouth a thin unbroken line. Time slowed, the air becoming thick, waterlogged, solid as Bill became aware of what was happening, and that he could do nothing to alter the events already in motion. Reeves had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, thrusting him away from the hail of bullets, turning them both until it was he, Reeves, in the line of fire. And though he clawed at the man’s coat desperately he could not seem to move him, could not seem to drag him back down to the safety of the ridge in time. He watched as his lieutenant’s shoulder jolted, felt the blood as it burst forth and hit his face, screamed as he realised what was happening.

And suddenly time rushed back up against them, throwing them to the ground and accelerating further until Bill felt sick at the speed, at the movement of the earth, the twisting of the horizon. He grabbed at Reeves’ clothes, searching for the exit wound among the bloodied cloth and skin, and then pressed his hands to it, hot tears stinging his cheeks as the blood continued to bubble up between his fingers. He couldn’t tell if there were other wounds, if other bullets had hit true, and could not bring himself to take his hands away from the streaming hole in Reeves’ collar to check.

The sound of gunfire surrounded them, once more overwhelming in its intensity, and he barely heard the distressed cry that escaped his throat as the tears overtook him, unable to reign in his terror. It hurt to breathe and so he decided not to bother, focusing his mind solely on the man beneath him, wishing desperately that they could have met under different circumstances, that he could have been free to admit how he felt, that he might have been brave enough to say to hell with the world and kissed the man.

He leant down, admiring the pale sweep of the Reeves’ cheek, the perfect bow of his lip, desperate to touch, but jolted himself away at the sight of his own blood soaked fingers.

“Please, sir,” he whispered, unable hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. “I’m so sorry, sir. Please don’t die.”

The lieutenant’s eyes fluttered, as if he was asleep and deep in some pleasant dream, and Bill bit in to his lip to hold back the despair, tasting copper on his tongue as he bit too far, but unwilling to give his body quarter, not when he had cost a good man his life.

A sudden, metallic, clunk jolted him from the moment and he looked over to see the battered cylinder that had landed by his foot. It looked like one of their own shells, but one that had been cut and resealed and he glared at it in confusion before his eyes were drawn, as if by their own volition, to the fuse burning in the stopped up end. Grenade, his brain told him. Enemy grenade. He watched the fuse burn, so short, so close to its end, and thought about letting it be, until he recalled the blood on his hands, thick and dark and hot, and felt it pulse sluggishly, still moving. Reeves still lived. He grabbed up the grenade with sticky, blood coated hands, and threw it with all his might back over the ridge.

The explosion sounded mere seconds after it left his hand, and there was a scream, so close that it pierced the ringing and the fog within his head, but Bill didn’t bother to look over at whatever carnage had been wrought. Instead he pulled the handkerchief from Reeves’ pocket and stuffed it in to the wound to slow the bleeding as best he could. Men further along in the valley were waving their arms and moving their lips, shouting to him, he realised, and he could see Llewelyn yelling orders, but couldn’t understand what they were saying. He tried to lift Reeves in his arms, managed to get up on one knee, but fell, unable to carry a man taller than himself in such a way and so, with difficulty, maneuvered the man over his back and half dragged him, running hunched over, hoping desperately that no more bullets were being sent their way, for Reeves would bare the brunt of them, slung over Bill’s back as he was. He gripped the man’s thin wrists as tight as he could, his finger slipping, covered in blood and sweat as they were, and focused his eyes on the backs of the retreating men. He just had to get Reeves to the line of wagons, he told himself. There were medics there who would be able to get him away from the battlefield and to triage. He just had to make it as far as those wagons.

“Please don’t die, sir,” he whispered again, as he ran and stumbled, gasping the words as needles of pain began to prick at his lungs. “I’ll... I’ll do anything, sir, if you promise not to die. I’ll never go off without orders, never disobey a single thing you say. I’ll do whatever you tell me, sir. I’ll do anything you want. Anything for you, sir. Just, please? I’ll be a proper boring soldier, never use my brain or imagination again. I’ll make you proud of me... Just... please don’t die, Lieutenant Reeves, sir. Please don’t die.”

At some point, as his legs began to give out, and after what seemed hours he felt hands relieve him of the lieutenant’s body, hands pushing him to stop running, to stop and sit and breathe and drink. He tried to argue, to say that the lieutenant needed to be taken immediately to the field hospital, but was ordered to sit and could not disobey. He gave in dutifully, hoping it would amount to proof that he intended to keep his promises if Reeves be allowed to live, though he wasn’t sure who he was displaying such proof to.

Eventually he was jostled to his feet again, but barely managed to keep pace with the other men as they retreated from the front line, leaving others to defend the blood-soaked valley they had taken that day. He followed the feet of the man in front of him until the barracks appeared in his vision, but they seemed foreign, as if he hadn’t seen them in years, and he stood waiting to be told what to do until a face he recognise swam in to focus before him, the rock hard face Sergeant Llewelyn, though it was inexplicably softened by concern.

“To the hospital bay, boy,” he said gently. “Come on now. Let’s get you stitched up and cleaned up before anything else. Come one now.”

“But...” Bill slurred before biting his lip, wincing at the pain, remembering his promise, and trying for a salute. “Yes, Sergeant. But Lieutenant Reeves, Sergeant. Is he...”

“He was alive the last time I saw him, Mullen. Thanks to you. Now fall in. You need stitching and about a week’s worth of sleep by the looks of you. Come on now, lad.”

Bill attempted another salute but Llewelyn waved him away and guided him to the barrack’s small hospital and the waiting nurse. The push of the needle in his arm burned and the tug of the thread was like ice against a broken tooth but he was too tired to protest. He felt small and exposed sitting on the stiff hospital cot and couldn’t seem to understand what anyone was saying to him, even when the ringing of his ears receded. The whiteness of the hospital was cloying, like the Christian missions he’d dreaded being sent off to as a boy, knowing they were worse than even what he was subjected to on the station, for all they seemed so clean and guiltless, and the old fear began to rise to the surface again.

By the time an officer he didn’t know the name of appeared in front of him, pointing and accusing, followed by Major White, both of them all but foaming at the mouth in anger, Bill hadn’t a word left in his head to say in his defense. The dynamite, he realised. They knew about the dynamite, and that he’d got Lieutenant Reeves shot; that he’d nearly killed his officer. They seemed to have a great deal to say against him but he couldn’t seem to focus on the words properly. His heart was beating too slow, or maybe it only seemed so after how fast it had been going for most of the day, but whatever the reason, it felt heavy and irregular in his chest and he couldn’t seem to process what was happening. He allowed himself to be pulled upright, even as the movement sent a bolt of pain to his freshly stitched arm, and marched to the lockup. That was familiar at least and he felt relief when he was dropped without ceremony in to one of the tiny solitary cells. The walls leaned in close, dark and sweat-soaked like the tack room, and he surrendered to the panic which in time gave way to exhaustion, and then sleep. It was only with the arrival of the morning that he realised what must have actually happened and the mistakes he had made. The fear that Lieutenant Reeves had in fact died of his wounds filled his mind and the claustrophobic cell, for surely he was being punished for a most terrible deed.

Twenty-one days later, when the cell door opened and Reeves stood before him, tired and pale and thin, and overflowing with worry, telling him that his sentence had been discharged and he was free to rejoin his unit, Bill feared he’d die from the pain that erupted in his chest. Instead he knelt on the hard floor and cried until he thought he would drown.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: War, violence, injury, blood, splinters, glass, anxiety, minor death, swearing, guns, pain, car accident,

**11/8/1914**

**To: Corp. B. Mullen.**  
**Asphodel Meadows, G.B.**

**Dear Bill, Delayed on continent. Return date unknown. At war it appears. Bloody nuisance as you’d say. Making best of things. Give love to dearest. Will contact by phone as soon as able.**

**Capt. W. Reeves.**

~~~~

August 17th, 1914

Bill woke with a gasp, desperate to draw air in to his burning lungs even as it tore at his throat. He tried to swallow only for the metallic tang of blood to fill his senses and the panic continued to climb as he flung his arm out across the bed only to recall, as his hand hit the cold sheets, that he was alone. Will was gone. Will was gone and he was alone and they would never let him out! Ringing filled his ear and the inside of his skull and he called out miserably as he swung his legs out of the bed and hunched over, clutching at his hair, desperate to stop the hideous noise, his mind and body caught in limbo between sleep and waking. The war’s long over, he told himself steadily. The war is over and you are at home in your bed. You are safe. You are free. It was difficult to control his emotions, and his fear, in the absolute darkness of the bedroom and eventually he stumbled across the room to the window and pulled at the curtains until the garden, bathed in moonlight, was visible.

His hands trembled as he reached for the catch and opened the window, letting in the whisper of a breeze. It held the promise of rain and Bill smiled at that thought. It was what he needed really, to stand out under the open skies, bare feet planted firm in the soil, and let the rain cleanse him of the distress that had been building up in his bones. Even the idea of rain helped, and he concentrated on syncing him mind with the steady rhythm in his imagination until he was able to breathe again, though his chest still ached horribly. He turned his attention to the windbreak, taking his time as he counted the trees, refusing to think over the vague memories that the nightmare had left behind, of being trapped, enclosed, surrounded on all sides by dirt, by rubble, by cold rough walls. No, told himself. He was a free man and his solitude was not an enforced one. He was home, he reminded himself as his breathing finally began to settle properly, or as close to home as any piece of land could get, even if it wasn’t truly home without Will there. But he was safe at least, and the dreams had been just that, dreams, already fading back in to the darkness of the bedroom behind him.

After close to ten years without a single night-terror Bill was struggling not to see the connection between Will’s absence and the sudden return of his nightmares. They had been attacking his rest with growing persistence over the weeks since Will’s phone call to say he was heading abroad, and his body’s reaction, his distress, had also grown as the absence lengthened. It had gotten to such a point that even the thought of sleep made Bill nervous and he knew he’d have no luck if he tried to go back to bed now, and no peace if he stayed in the silent, empty bedroom. He tugged on a pair of trousers hurriedly and strode from the room, refusing to look at the bed, at the reminder that Will was still gone. It was supposed to be their marriage bed, even if it was a secret one, but they hadn’t shared a single night together since the day of their wedding and the ache he felt at what he was missing, of who he was missing, was becoming unbearable.

As he rushed from the room his hip knocked against the narrow table that stood by the door. He swore at the pain but didn’t stop to pick up the assortment of newspapers that had fallen to the floor with his passing. They were no use to him, could not give him the answers he needed, or the peace of mind he craved, and he didn’t wish to even look at them. Bill had never been one for newspapers, hadn’t really cared for the goings on of the world once he came to settle at Asphodel Meadows, but as tensions on the continent had inflated Smithy had begun stopping by each evening with a paper or two and any news he had heard during the day. He was aware that Will was entangled in the drama and didn’t want Bill to be left wondering, so he’d explained in his quiet, gruff way. Smithy had long ago taken it upon himself to see that no harm came to the young Australian, especially when there had been hostility within the village and difficulty in hiring hands to work the farm when William inherited the property and cast Bill as his estate manager. It had been far from easy those first months and Bill appreciated the support and easy friendship Smithy offered, but the side effect of knowing that the European nations were gearing for war was that Bill couldn’t seem to keep his heart calm for any real length of time, and the stress was starting to wear on him.

When he finally reached the kitchen door his breathing had become unsteady again and he pushed the door aside with more force than it needed, making himself jump as it swung out and banged loudly against the wall. The sound, and his reaction to it, reminded him of Will, of how damaged his nerves had been after the prison break all those years ago, how he’d thought himself useless. It had taken them both a good while to recover, and they had done so together, hand in hand, hidden away in their own private world. Bill wasn’t sure he would have regained his confidence, or let go of his anger, if it hadn’t been for Will. Now he worried how his husband was getting along, stuck on a continent that was officially at war.

Once his feet were flat on the soil, out in the meadow beyond the kitchen garden, Bill closed his eyes and let his soul settle. He could feel the rain moving in, could feel the beat of his heart, the beat of the land, and if he stretched his mind far enough he imagined he could feel the steady rhythm of Will’s heart too. Bill knew that most people would scoff at the mention of such a connection, most English people in any case, but Bill knew better. He had learned to trust himself, really trust his instincts and heart over the years, as well as his mind, and he knew that what he felt was Will’s heartbeat. He had to believe it was so. There was no hope to be had otherwise. He would know, he told himself, if anything were to happen to his William.

As the first fat, cold, rain drops hit the earth around him, Bill sighed and felt himself finally relax enough to smile. It would all be alright, he reminded himself, he just had to stay calm. It wasn’t as if he could leave the farm and the house and run off after his lover in to a war. They weren’t rash boys any more. Over the years he’d learnt the value of patience and planning, as Will had learnt a hundred new ways to not be noticed when he chose to. They were beyond such foolish acts of gallantry as had gotten them both in to trouble during the last war. Besides which, Bill reminded himself, the telegram proved that William was safe and living, or at least safe enough that he still had his sense of humour. ‘Bloody nuisance’ indeed, he chuckled as he turned his face toward the sky, letting the rain pound against his bare skin. The advent of war was indeed a nuisance, but he resolved to treat it as nothing more. He had a farm to run and he knew that if the situation changed Will would find a way to let him know. He wasn’t fond of putting information down in writing for anyone to see, but Bill knew he’d send another telegram if he deemed it necessary.

The rain beat harder on his skin until all residue of the nightmare was gone and his body felt stripped of the fear and stress. There was always a chance that the war would blow over, and that Will would be able to make it home without too much more of a delay. Charlie certainly thought so, though Bill took the man’s opinion with two good pinches of salt. Freddie was of a different opinion and was greatly perturbed by what she read, though Bill couldn’t pretend to understand all of what she said. She was dear to him but she had a way of letting her words run too far ahead of her, so that Bill couldn’t keep up. What he understood from her however, was that things could turn sour very quickly and that, having declared war on Germany for the sake of Belgium’s neutrality, Britain would be forced to send troops in to action. Her one consoling thought was that William was no longer, really, a soldier. He was still Captain Reeves certainly, she’d told Bill comfortingly the week before, when she’d made the journey down to visit him, but Will wasn’t in the military anymore. He wouldn’t be called back in to active service.

Bill tried to blame the shudder that ran through his muscles on the rain, and the cold had definitely seeped in to his skin more than he usually liked, but he knew it wasn’t only the icy water making him shiver. None of their friends knew the truth of Will’s involvement in Military Intelligence. Bill was sure even he didn’t know half of it. There was no way of knowing how William’s skills would be put to use, especially since he was already there, at the front. Bill hadn’t been able to ignore the fact that the telegraph had been sent from Belgium, where the Germans were even now sweeping through and killing all who stood in their path. Will was very good at not being seen, it was true, but he also had a tendency to try and save those around him, often by throwing himself in to danger instead. There were countless ways he could get himself in to trouble in Belgium and Bill hated not knowing exactly what he was going through.

He tried to set such feelings aside, to focus on the beat of his heart and the matching beat so far away, but they seemed to have moved out of sync somehow; Will’s heart was pumping hard, as if he was in some sort of struggle or pain, and Bill forced himself back from the rushing adrenaline of such a rhythm. It was terrifying in its connotations. He let himself go down hard on his knees in the mud of the meadow, his mind unable to cope with the suddenly spiraling panic. Everything would be alright, he told himself over and over. Will would come back to him, alive and well, just as he always did, and Bill would know home again. They were linked souls after all, more than simply married, and one could not die without the other, he was sure of it. He had to believe it. But none of that stopped the pain in his chest and ringing in his ear.

He lay himself down on his back, determined not to be beaten by the fear he had thought long gone, and tried to connect himself with the foreign soil. It wasn’t his land but it was Will’s and so with time, as the rain began to die back and the sun attempted to fight her way through to announce the morning, he was able to feel the heart beat across the sea return to a steadier pace, and then match his own. Whatever Will had been through, it was over now at least, he felt, and Bill slept knowing that his husband was alive and relatively safe.

~~~~

Will threw himself down behind the barn door and took a shuddering breath, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth when the gasps for air became louder. He had seen a great deal of pain and suffering over the years; as a soldier, as a spy, as he researched the crimes and injustices committed by his own people. But it had been many years since he himself had been the one in pain, and at the centre of such danger, and he was struggling to handle it with a level head.

It had been the sort of plan that seemed perfectly reasonable on paper, which should have given him fair warning that it would turn out to be a complete disaster, but Will had been beyond tired when the orders had come through, that he was to assist the Belgium government in relocating from Brussels. So far beyond tired that he had simply followed orders, mollified by the hope that this task would take him to France, which would, with any luck, get him closer to home. He should have remembered the greatest lesson learned in warfare: your commanding officer is an idiot who knows less than you. Bill had taught him that, and he smiled despite his fear as he thought of his husband. He needed to get back to him, had promised them both that he would be home in good time, and almost all of the other British civilians in and around Brussels had already been evacuated. Only Will remained, or so it seemed to him, and that was because, despite what the Belgium government had been told, he was not in fact a civilian.

Will took another steadying breath, trying to remind himself that he was Captain William Reeves, and that he had a job to do, but all he wanted to think about was Bill. At some point during the ambush of the convoy it had started to rain and he tried to focus on that, on the steady patter of the droplets on the barn roof, at how strangely soothing the sound was. Bill loved the rain. Will had watched his reaction to it more than once over the years, the way his eyes would light up at the first sign of summer rain, as if he could feel it coming before the clouds even darkened. It was like magic. But there was nothing magic about the situation Will found himself in, and he was running out of ideas.

When the German’s had ambushed the convoy, the last of three that was delivering the Belgium parliament to the French border, Will had been forced to create a diversion. He now wondered if it had been successful, but had no way of finding out. He’d sent the guards out to defend their position, a difficult thing given they’d been stopped at a crossroad, whilst Will had hurried the three members of the senate and their wives in to the front vehicle and sent them off on the eastern road, a more roundabout route but one which would hopefully attract less attention. The guards hadn’t fared well. Their weapons were antiquated and they were vastly outnumbered. It had torn at his heart to abandon them but they had sworn to protect their members of parliament, and they had no real way to retreat en masse.

So instead Will had taken one of the cars, spinning the wheels and near skidding off of the road as he turned down the track the convoy had originally intended to take. His hope had been to draw away some of the enemy fire and throw in to doubt which car the parliamentarians were in and which car they had taken, and the plan worked. Within seconds of his departure Will became aware that he was being followed, though it took his brain several moments to comprehend what he was seeing behind him on the road.

“The bloody cavalry,” he cursed under his breath, taking a bend in the narrow road too sharply. “They’ve set the bloody cavalry on me! Brilliant!”

He’d wished desperately for his motorcycle. There was no knowing what was to become of it, left abandoned in Brussels, but left off wishing when bullets began to fly, ricocheting off the metal frame of the car and smashing the rear window. His hands had slipped on the steering wheel, his heart almost choking him as it leapt in to his throat as he nearly came off the road. His hands were slick with sweat and the lights of the car’s headlamps were jumping all over the thick woodland that crowded around the road, blocking any chance of escape. The panic was mounting.

Another shot came, taking out the front windscreen, and Will swerved, unable to control the vehicle as it flew from the road, into the woods, and toward a steep ravine. In the terror of the moment it seemed impossible to focus his mind, until the car hit the thickly wooded slope and began to bounce, and then roll, down the hill, tossing him about like a child’s toy in violent hands. Shards of glass stung his hands and face but the pain awoke within him the need to survive. He knew there would be no escape from the motorcar once it hit the bottom of the ravine, and as he was bounced between a tree and a sharp, rocky, outcrop he forced the door open and flung himself free.

The rain hit harder than the glass had, piercing his skin anew, and he fell badly, rolling across the uneven ground until he landed with a crack against a tree stump. All around was darkness, wavering search lights, the snorting of horses, the rain, and Will had no idea where he could go in order to find safety. Nowhere in Belgium seemed safe anymore and the German army seemed to have no qualms about murdering civilians. He could not guarantee that he would be taken prisoner if they found him. More than likely he’d end up with a bullet in his skull and his body would be left to rot in the woods, food for the birds. He’d never get a chance to tell Bill how much he loved him again, or kiss him, or feel safe in the circle of his arms. Which was simply not an option.

At the bottom of the slope he heard a crash as what was left of the motorcar collided with the sharp, merciless, rocks, and then the tell-tale whoosh of petrol igniting. He threw himself flat against the ground, not wishing to give away his position in the sudden flash of light, and covered his head for good measure. He had witnessed enough explosions, both intentional and otherwise, to know that shrapnel could cover a far greater radius than seemed possible, and that it could land with enough force to cause severe injury or even death. He heard a shout some way to his left, but his exhausted, shaken, mind refused to translate the words. With any luck the soldiers would assume that he had died in the car and not be too over-zealous in their search, but he couldn’t rely on luck. He wasn’t sure whether he believed in the concept of luck, he certainly hadn’t seen any indication of it lately, and so open his eyes to search for any sign of his attackers as he cowered among the scrub.

Listening for signs of enemy approach was near impossible in the rain and Will’s ears seemed incapable of processing what he heard. The foot to his back therefore came as a shock and he rolled clear, taking the German soldier down with him. There was a scramble, the soldier’s light tumbled away down the hill, and Will saw the surprise and alarm in his young face in the moments before he realised that he had stepped on the very man they were hunting, and opened his mouth to yell. Will thought no further than the need to silence the enemy soldier and brought the heel of his palm up and in to the man’s windpipe. There was a gurgle, barely heard above the rain and the sizzling of the burning petrol, but the man wasn’t dead, not by a long shot. Hating himself as he did so, William grabbed the back of the man’s head with his left hand, slammed his right forearm against the German’s throat, and pushed hard, forcing himself to watch as the light left the man’s eyes before he shoved the body away and crawled from the scene.

Another call came, somewhere out in the darkness, but Will knew he couldn’t afford to stay out of sight if it meant going slow. Not now. And so he climbed to his feet and he ran, tripping down the hill, veering away from the crash sight, running and running even after his feet had gone numb and every breath tasted of copper, until the woodland gave way to farmland and he stumbled in to an old yet still weathertight barn. And there he remained, listening to the sound of the rain and hoping not to hear the sound of horses or soldiers.

His leg hurt, he realised eventually, and upon inspection he discovered several large gashes in his shin, where he’d struck the tree stump. His head span as he did his best to remove the larger splinters from his ripped flesh but all too soon his hands were shaking too badly to do so. There was still glass in his hands and as he grimaced he felt the glass in the skin of his cheeks as well.

“Ah!” he winced, moving his hands carefully away from his face and leaning his head back, trying to put some distance between his various injuries, though there was no good or practical reason to do so. His hands hurt even to look at and so Will closed his eyes and tried to get comfortable. The more time that passed the more he was able to relax and convince himself that he hadn’t been followed, but he still couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

In the past, when out of the country on diplomatic duties, he’d struggled to sleep without the comforting warmth of Bill beside him, but now it seemed that sleep was no longer even possible. It was foolish, he knew, to require such comfort in order to sleep, but he could not deny the solace that came with feeling Bill’s back against his own. He wanted to sleep. God, but he wanted to sleep. He’d been running on so little for so long, for too many weeks, and he could no longer fight the exhaustion... yet his body refused to let him drift off. He needed Bill. His Bill. His William. The rain seemed to increase with that thought, as if trying to get his attention. Bill loved the rain. He focused his breathing and thought of his lover standing out in the meadow, arms wide as he let the water wash over him, his feet set steady in the dark earth. He thought of the way his lover’s chest would heave as he released his emotions in to the torrent, cleansing himself in the storm, and tried to match his husband, breath for breath.

After a while it almost seemed as if Bill was with him, lying by his side, reminding him to breathe as he’d used to do when the insomnia had been new and the nightmares too real, his comforting voice blending with the rain, his solid, strong body positioned between Will and all danger. His head lolled back as his breathing evened out, his hands drifting down to rest by his sides; his eyes closed and his body was finally able to surrender to its need for sleep, safe in the knowledge that Bill slept by his side.

~~~~

**23/8/14**  
**To: Corp. B. Mullen.**  
**Asphodel Meadows, G.B.**

**Bill, find myself delayed. Crashed car. Always been rubbish with cars. Can imagine your reaction. Also fell over tree. Splinters most unbearable. All in all not my week. Found friends though and recovering well. Will call as soon as able. Give love to dearest. Missing them horribly.**

**Capt. W. Reeves.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: Swearing, non-graphic sex, past injury,

August 12th, 1900

Bill marched toward Reeves’ office, not sure what he was hoping to achieve but unable to deny the general feeling of hope that drove him back to the man’s door each day, and back to the man himself. Requesting permission to go out scouting for Boer commandos on the tracks was a flimsy excuse, and one he knew the lieutenant would probably scoff at immediately, but that wasn’t really the point of the exercise. The point was seeing Reeves, however he could engineer it, and he’d become something of an expert in that.

Bill wondered when the man would start to get suspicious, he was treading on thin ice after all, giving the man such pointed attention, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like sneaking off base and blowing things up; once Bill’s mind had made itself up about something there was simply no fighting it. It was the same uncontrollable impulse that had forced him to throw his arms around Lieutenant Reeves and hug him when he’d realised the man wasn’t actually dead, and Bill couldn’t deny the impulse when the result of that hug had been a deepening of their friendship rather than a rejection. Reeves has started listening to him more, seeking him out for missions, and heeding his opinions about Boer explosives. The attention had gone to his head a bit, actually, and it gave him a little rush to think on it. Reeves sought out Bill almost as much as Bill sought him, and while Reeves still had the look of a man who’d never been held as an infant Bill had been surprised at the officer’s tolerance for his company and his touch. Especially after what had happened during their last battle; the bullet that had ripped through Reeves’ collar and left Bill kissed by the man’s blood.

The memory made him shudder and he stopped short of the door by a few steps, suddenly unsure and unwilling to trust the drive that had propelled him in his march toward Reeves’ door. Sometimes the impulses led him down the wrong road, and too often these days they all but screamed at him to hang the rules and the law and every social convention and just kiss the man. He couldn’t act on that desire, so how could he trust any other? 

Bill had come to terms with the fact that he’d fallen in love with his lieutenant. It had gone beyond a simple passion - a flutter in his chest, an appreciation of the man’s body, a desire to flirt, a tightening in his groin; he cared deeply for Lieutenant Reeves now, loved him, though it was a difficult thing to define. When he had thought Reeves was dead he had grieved for him, had let his tears flow, had sung for his spirit. He had committed Reeves’ name to memory, knowing he would never be able to speak it, that he would never live beyond the terrifying grief that was ripping him apart from within. It had all left him rung out and raw, and unable to properly hide his emotions upon seeing the man alive and well when his period of confinement was over. He had realised at that moment that he never wanted to be so removed from Reeves’ presence again. 

Now that desire to be with him was eating at Bill until he could barely stand to go a day without finding an excuse to be with the man. The only times when it hurt more to be near than to be far was in the field, during the patrols and skirmishes that made up such a large portion of their time, when the urge to leave his post so as to be beside Reeves, protecting him from harm, was so intense it made him nauseous with worry. Llewelyn had noticed it, after the second or third time it happened, and had given up yelling at Bill to get back to his position. Instead he’d started positioning Bill as close to Reeves as practical whenever he could, but had also cornered Bill to warn him of the dangers that came with worshipping ones superior officers, or thinking a life debt was owed for things that happened in the field of battle. 

Bill had listened to the advice, and the well-meaning words, but he hadn’t been able to change his behaviour. The truth of the matter was that he did owe Lieutenant Reeves his life and there was no escaping that fact. And he had no desire to. He wanted to protect the lieutenant. He never wanted to see Reeves get hurt again, would go to any lengths to ensure his safety, but he had tried to at least be more discrete in his devotion. He didn’t want Lieutenant Reeves to discover the truth and turn his back on him. He couldn’t bear the thought of the man he felt such deep emotions for looking at him with disdain, or an indifferent loathing. 

Not that Reeves had seemed to mind so far, but Bill was wary. He knew Llewelyn was watching him closely, along with White and several of the other officers. As the sole Aboriginal man in his unit he supposed he was an unknown entity and no one seemed to know what to do about him. He’d tried to take advantage of that at first but he was starting to learn caution. Being shoved and tripped was something he was used to, having his rations and pay go mysteriously missing, along with his meagre belongings, none of that was new. But he knew that things would go downhill fast if any of the men watching him like he was a dangerous animal found out that he had romantic feelings for another man.

Yet he still wanted to see Reeves. He took a step closer to the door before hesitating yet again. It was childish and really a bit pathetic but he just wanted to be close to the man. He liked making him blush when he saluted or said something coarse that one was never supposed to say in front of an officer. He wanted to relive the moment he’d first made the man laugh by insulting the sun, such a surprised sound - short and sharp - so intense in its pleasure. More than anything Bill wanted to kiss him, and holding himself back was becoming next to impossible.

For a brief while (a very brief while) he’d even convinced himself that Reeves felt the same way. In his head the looks between them held more longing than he knew they realistically could, and even if the spark he felt was felt by Reeves too it would not be reciprocated. Almost every white person he’d met in his life had almost no understanding of their own heart.

Not that he was doing much better at present, Bill thought ruefully, but at least he was giving his heart some of what it craved. He took the final few steps forward to the office door and raised his hand to knock, wondering whether to make it a solemn, sensible knock so that Reeves wouldn’t know it was him, or whether he should signal his arrival with a more enthusiastic rat-a-tat so that Reeves would be able to prepare from yet another visit from his annoying shadow. Two days ago he’d been worrying about being shot at, again, and now his chief concern was the rhythm his fist would make on a door. The door of a man he very dearly wanted to kiss. Bill looked at his knuckles, raised and ready yet unmoving thanks to his ridiculous indecision, sighed at his own silliness, then jumped clean off the floor when the door opened before his fist could touch the wood.

“Sir!” he yelped, trying to hide his surprise and hiding his fist behind his back for good measure. It wasn’t the first time Reeves had done that to him, opening the door just before he got around to knocking, but it always made him jump. How did the man know he was there? And why did he always have to look so smug about it? “Lieutenant Reeves, sir. I...”

Reeves smiled quickly before pursing his lips together as if to squash it, though it was long enough to set Bill’s heart to racing and make his throat feel drier than a desert wind. “It is my office, Private,” he said calmly, having left Bill hanging in embarrassed silence for a good while. “Who else were you expecting?”

“I...” Bill stuttered again, wondering why he was even more off kilter than normal before he realised what was different: the collar. Lieutenant Reeves wasn’t a stickler like some officers but he usually wore his shirt and jacket properly buttoned, only not tonight. Several buttons had been left undone and Bill’s eyes tracked down the line of the man’s pale neck to the dip of his collar bone. He’d never seen Reeves’ collar before and he could feel his eyes widen as he took in the sight. A little of the man’s chest was on display as well, skin which seemed to Bill to be utterly perfect though he couldn’t rightly say why. He watched the man swallow, found himself copying the action. “I...”

“Private Mullen, are you alright?” Reeves asked his voice suddenly full of concern. 

Bill might have still been able to answer then, he was sure he might have, if Reeves has not at that moment stretched out his arm and placed his hand on Bill’s shoulder, squeezing in a way that by rights should have been comforting, yet instead caused Bill to actually whimper.

“Mphm!”

Reeves looked doubly concerned now and immediately steered Bill in to his office, and shut and bolted the door swiftly before coming to stand in front of Bill, this time placing both hands on his shoulders, something he never would have done six months ago, when even the chance of physical contact with Bill would have seen him jumping away. But he wasn’t jumping now. His lips were so close, so ridiculously close. And they were parted, as if waiting, Bill’s traitorous brain whispered, as if they were expecting a kiss. _Oh,_ Bill thought painfully, _I am going to get in so much trouble for this._

But before he could act on the impulse Reeves shook him, gently, and brought him mostly to his senses. He nodded dumbly, even though no question had been asked, but Reeves seemed satisfied and let go of his shoulders, shuffling back as if he’d suddenly remembered he was supposed to be uptight and awkward. Bill felt a little sorry about that, that he no longer had two, strong, slender hands on his shoulders, but he tried to hide it by giving a casual salute and was rewarded with another brief smile.

“So what is the problem, Mullen?” Reeves asked, moving back awkwardly as he spoke until the desk was between them and he’d found his seat. “Is it with the other men? I’ve heard rumours, you know, and you mustn’t let them mistreat you, if you give me their name’s I can-“

“Nothing like that, sir!” Bill interrupted, his heart jolting when Reeves looked up slowly and raised his eyebrows. 

“I see,” he said slowly, looking Bill up and down as if he was trying to judge his weight. “Then perhaps you’ve come to admit to me that you lied on your paperwork.”

“I what?” Bill squawked but Reeves just stared until he felt his cheeks heat all over again. “I never did.”

“It’s your birthday today, Mullen. A fact that I became aware of only a few minutes ago. I read through your papers, you see, and on them you claim to be twenty-five.”

“Yeah, well,” Bill scowled. This was not where he’d hoped this conversation would go. He had wanted to be in Reeves’ company but he hadn’t wanted to be interrogated. He was honestly quite surprised at how good the man was at quiet intimidation if he was honest. He’d steepled his fingers and was looking at Bill like he could see straight through his clothes to his skin and it was unnerving, and rather arousing.

Reeves sighed. “You are not twenty-five, Mullen, any more than I am. And it’s very important that I know your real age.”

Bill bit his lip. He didn’t mind keeping the truth from everyone else, no one else cared, but he didn’t like the idea of lying to Lieutenant Reeves. It seemed like just another block between them and he couldn’t bear to have the man think badly of him. He looked down at the man, at the intense stare and the lips that were very nearly pouting as he concentrated. It was too much. Maybe if he admitted to being young they’d go easy on him when he inevitably lost control and kissed Reeves on his ridiculous mouth! 

“If today’s my birthday,” he said slowly. “Then I guess that makes me... eighteen years now. Sir.”

“Eighteen!” Reeves slammed his hand down hard on the desk and Bill jumped even though he’d known the outburst was coming. “For godsake, Corporal! Eighteen?”

“Well how old are you then?” Bill snapped back, knowing he was crossing a line that could well get him disciplined though Reeves didn’t seem about to call him out for speaking out of turn.

“I’m-“ Reeves pursed his lips and gave Bill an infuriated look. “I happen to be twenty-one years old, Corporal, and like every properly enrolled soldier in the BEF I was not deployed until after I reached nineteen. You are running way ahead of schedule, Mullen.”

Bill went to argue on, to say that he was just an Australian volunteer and no one cared how old he was, but his brain was sent reeling when it picked up on an important word.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “But it’s Private Mullen. Not Corporal. I’d never hear the end of it if word got out that I’d allowed you to call me by the wrong rank, sir.”

“It wasn’t a mistake, Corporal,” Reeves answered wryly. “I’ve just received word that my recommendation was approved and you have been promoted to the rank of Corporal.” He smiled, a softer, more lingering smile than any of his earlier ones and Bill felt pride well up inside his heart. Being promoted seemed too far fetched to process, but making Lieutenant Reeves smile at him like that - with such dear affection - was almost too much.

“I don’t... understand, sir.” He searched his mind for words, a way to say thank you for such a kindness, but drew a blank. “Why me?”

“Why?” Reeves stood again and strode quickly back to Bill, to stand before him. “Mullen, you’re smart, you’re fast, you have good ideas and you’ve proven yourself worthy of the rank. And after that mishap two days ago we are down by one corporal. I just needed to make sure I wasn’t promoting a boy is all. They’d have my hide if I’d recommended some fifteen-year-old from the colonies. Eighteen is still a little young but I think I can fudge the numbers just enough to make it more acceptable. And a little more believable.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bill replied sheepishly, still feeling lost, but when Reeves very carefully held out his hand he didn’t hesitate in shaking it, and his whole body buzzed with sudden adrenaline at the contact of their palms. 

“It was well earned, Corporal Mullen,” Reeves grinned, holding his hand tightly, his lips still looking perfectly tempting.

“God I could kiss you right now.”

It took a moment for Bill to realise that he’d said the words out loud but when the reality hit him he leapt back, pulling his hand out of Reeves’ and clutching it in his other against his chest as if he’d been burned. Oh no, he thought desperately, stumbling back toward the door. _Oh no, oh no, oh no! Oh, I am for it now!_

Reeves, however, seemed startled at the violence of Bill’s actions but didn’t attempt to confirm what he’d said. Instead he walked rather awkwardly, and rather quickly, back to his desk and sat down with a bump, a blush sitting high on his cheeks, like the words had been his, not Bill’s. The silence between them thickened and Bill found himself watching the way Reeves’ eyes seemed to widen and widen as if he were listening to Bill’s confession over and over in his head and being shocked by it every single time. 

“And what-“ Reeves stopped and swallowed roughly before speaking again and Bill found his eyes now drawn to the man’s throat, and the flow of his skin. “What exactly brought you to my door tonight, Corporal Mullen?”

Bill nodded. Reeves had chosen to ignore the confession, which was definitely for the best, and he felt dizzy with relief that he wasn’t about to be thrown back in solitary, or worse. 

“Well sir,” he stammered. “I know you’ll think it’s just my stupidity shining through, sir. But-“

“You’re not stupid,” Reeves interjected with a vehemence that startled both of the them, and Bill felt his cheeks heat dramatically at the earnest expression on the man’s face. He really seemed to believe it, that Bill wasn’t just a dumb Goop, and seemed determined for Bill to believe it too. 

“Well,” Bill shuffled from foot to foot awkwardly, unable to break eye contact for longer than a few seconds but unable to keep it long either. If he looked in to Reeves’ eyes for too long he’d end up giving in to that damned urge to run across the room and kiss the man senseless. The thin ice he’d been treading was cracking beneath his feet and he couldn’t afford to misstep. Hugging a commanding officer and following him about and bothering him at all hours, all that seemed to be tolerated, but he couldn’t let it go further. No matter that there was definitely something between them, kissing the man would end Bill up in a lot more trouble than just a trip to solitary. He wasn’t a member of the British Expeditionary Force, he was just an Australian volunteer,  and an Aboriginal one at that. He had no real rights under the law and if he was accused of being homosexual he’d most likely end up dead. Just another reason to hate white men, he thought sourly, but he couldn’t hate Reeves. Far from it in fact. 

Lieutenant Reeves was still looking at him, brow all creased with concern, and Bill curled his hands in to fists to resist the urge to smooth out those lines with his fingers, but it was a hard thing and his heartbeat skipped and tripped about in his chest as he struggled to speak.

“Well... even so, sir. What with word getting out about a new push for victory, and what with our military not being the best at keeping their secrets secret, and what with five trains due to be using the tracks we are so conveniently close to this week...”

He hesitated again, distracted by the way Reeves’ lips had parted just so, and by the tilt of his head as he listened. If only there were some way he could just stay in his company and appreciate his beauty without the rest of the world, and their lives, and the war, getting in the way.

“Just spit it out, Mullen,” Reeves urged him eventually, but he smiled as he said it and Bill found himself grinning back foolishly because Reeves’ smiles, when they appeared, were intoxicating and contagious.

“I’d like to go scouting the tracks, sir,” he finally said in a rush. “Just after dawn preferably, so’s there’s still dew out to show where the Boer’ve been.”

Reeves stared at him, hard and long, his delicate hands laced together, like a hammock for his chin as he studied Bill’s expression, trying to see past the request to what Bill was actually asking for. Eventually his lips twitched upwards and he leaned back in his chair, an action which only made Bill’s desire for him grow. 

“It’s dangerous out there just now, Mullen,” the lieutenant said with careful indifference, as if that wasn’t the greatest understatement of all time. “The enemy do not fight according to the rules, or honour. Gone are the days of the chivalrous battlefield.”

Bill licked his lips and tried not to focus too obviously on the way Reeves’ hands were moving. He had such expressive hands, like he was making music in the air, Bill always thought, and they were hypnotising to watch. He wondered how they’d feel against his skin.

“Due respect, sir,” he said, the wobble obvious in his voice as he darted his eyes away from Reeves’ curious gaze. “But I find it hard to believe there’s ever been a really honourable war. It’s all nasty. It’s all just killing. And following the rules?” he shrugged and tried not to look too pleased with himself when Reeves grinned at him yet again. “I’ve never seen much point in following rules, sir. And if the enemy’s ripped up the rule book, why the hell should we keep trying to read it?”

In the heady silence that followed Bill tried not to fidget, but it was a hard task with Reeves staring at him like he was. He tried to appear at ease but it was impossible to do when his own words were circling in his head. _God I could kiss you right now. God I could kiss you. I could kiss you._

“Well I don’t see any reason to deny such a request,” Reeves announced and Bill was unable to stop the small, strangled noise that escaped his throat. He’d been so overwhelmed by his need he’d mistaken Reeves’ ascent to the patrol of the tracks for consent to a kiss, and nearly tripped over his own feet stepping back when Reeves launches himself out of his chair once again, stepping in to Bill’s space and looking down at him with eyes overflowing with concern and desire. 

“Are you alright, Corporal?” he asked, bringing his hand up to Bill’s elbow, to support him and draw him in so close that their chests were near touching. 

“Of course, sir,” Bill mumbled, unsure of where to look. “Never better, sir.”

Reeves nodded. “Good.” Perhaps it was Bill’s ears and mind playing tricks on him, he thought, but Reeves’ voice sounded deeper, huskier than normal, and it was having an effect on Bill that he soon wouldn’t be able to hide. “But as you say, Mullen, it should be at dawn. No point checking the tracks before the Boer have even been through, is there?”

“Exactly, sir,” Bill murmured, staring at the man’s lips. 

He couldn’t not stare anymore. Reeves was several inches taller than he and his view of the man’s lips when they were stood so close was unparalleled, and mesmerising.

“It’s a good plan, Mullen,” Reeves said, his voice barely above a whisper, his own breathing becoming shallow and uneven. “Come dawn you shall name the sight and lead the search. Which only leaves one point of conversation left... to discuss...”

“Sir?”

Reeves leaned in closer and Bill shivered, unable to contain his body’s reaction to such an action. He couldn’t quite believe how close their bodies were, or the way Reeves was speaking to him, or the intimate way those long fingers were stroking his arm. 

“Yes,” Reeves breathed eventually. “Yes, I must ask you, Corporal, whether you spoke true... spoke from the heart... earlier?” Bill opened his mouth to continue but Reeves shook his head and hurried on. “Because I, I would voice no objection. Would give you leave to act... according to your wishes, in fact. If you might permit me to do the same.”

It was the most round-about way of asking for a kiss that Bill supposed there had ever been, and it made him smile with the deepest affection, all the more because he sensed the hesitance, the fear, the need to guard himself and be discrete that was drenching Reeves’ spirit as he spoke. Bill hadn’t dared hope for this and had convinced himself so firmly that Reeves didn’t requite his affections that he had missed the longing that he now saw clearly in Reeves’ eyes, and in the trembling that was overtaking his thin frame. Do it, his brain urged, and Bill finally gave in to the impulse, his blood fizzing through his veins like gunpowder as he reached up his hand to cup the man’s jaw and run his thumb over one flushed, chiseled, cheekbone. 

“I meant it, sir,” he whispered, “with all my heart,” then raised himself on to his toes and pressed their lips soundly together. 

No amount of dreaming about what it might be like had prepared Bill for the fire that shot through him as their lips met. It was beyond imagining, and sent his thoughts and emotions spinning. After a moment of simply letting their mouths rest against one another’s he began to move slowly, enjoying the feel of Reeves’ lips against his, of the man’s body against his, the scratch of stubble on stubble, the soft gasp of air against his skin. He took his time, laying gentle kisses along Reeves’ lips, altering his angle from time to time, altering his speed - giving first one, long kiss, followed by three shorter ones to the corner of his mouth, beside the hidden dimple that Bill fancied only he knew existed. 

His ankles wobbled from being raised up on his toes but he carried on until Reeves was gasping continuously, his grip on Bill’s arms fierce, though he was otherwise passive, and when Bill leant in to him, forcing his groin against Reeves’ with wicked force, he took advantage of the desperate groan that escaped those beautiful lips and kissed Reeves properly.

“Oh!” 

Having a tongue in his mouth seemed to have effected Reeves’ knees and he clutched at Bill frantically. Bill simply chuckled, holding Reeves’ head in his hands and smiling against his panting lips as he shuffled them both back towards Reeves’ chair. The last thing he wanted was to end up on the floor. The resulting thud would no doubt bring people running and he didn’t want anything to interrupt this fantasy come to life. 

He moved carefully, unable to reign in his grin at the possessive way Reeves’ hands were sliding over his arms and back. He rubbed his nose against the other man’s, giggling outright at the odd sensation. Reeves’ nose was so straight and had no give, whilst Bill’s pushed in against it, soft where Reeves’ was hard. The laughter continued to bubble out of him as Reeves’ legs hit the edge of his desk chair and gave way, and they tumbled down together, Reeves in his chair and Bill in Reeves’ lap.

The new angle allowed for closer contact, and greater friction, and Bill fought against the urge to pinch himself to confirm that he was awake and that what was happening was actually real.

“Sir,” he gasped as Reeves’ hands continued to explore, tugging at Bill’s shirt until his fingers finally found skin. Their kisses had turned messy and Bill moaned at the feel of Reeves’ hands against the skin of his back. He felt as if he were burning up and that the fingers sliding over his skin were flames, consuming him and devouring him. Trapped within his trousers his groin throbbed desperately and he pushed against Reeves, needing more. “I’ve wanted this for so long, sir. Since I saw you. Wanted to kiss you. Can’t believe this is real.”

“And you have occupied my every thought since the day we met,” Reeves replies breathily, swiping his tongue across Bill’s plump, bottom lip. “I never dared hope for such feelings, let alone to have them requited. Oh!” 

The desire in Bill’s mind was to grind his hips harder, to kiss until neither of them could breathe, to finally find some damned relief. But Reeves was holding him so tightly, his lust heavily mixed with fear, so strong Bill could taste it, and despite the pounding of his blood and itching in his skin, he pulled back. After all, who knew when he’d get a chance to do something like this again. He needed to make it last, and that meant slowing down.

“Sir?” he asked, running his fingers gently over the man’s cheeks and forehead and nose.  “Have you ever... done this before?”

Reeves hesitated, looking up through heavy lidded eyes, suddenly unsure, looking younger than Bill had imagined possible. “If I say no are you going to laugh at me?”

“God no!” Bill exclaimed. “Of course not!”

“No?” Reeves asked, regaining a little of his composure in the face of Bill’s indignation. He arched an eyebrow and Bill shivered, biting his bottom lip as he stared down in to the man’s eyes, full of greens and yellows and golds. “No, of course not,” Reeves scoffed good-naturedly. “You’ll just grin at me like you’ve won a bloody battle single-handed.”

“What?” Bill laughed breathily. “Grin at you how?”

“Oh, don’t give me that, Mullen. You’re doing it right now.”

“I am not!”

“You are!” Reeves laughed, a low rumble that Bill had never heard before, and he leaned in, delighted by the sound, and the effect of the vibrations on his body. “You are! You should see yourself.”

“Alright then. You’ve got a mirror in the corner, don’t you? I’ll just-”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Reeves grabbed him tight, hands digging in to the flesh of Bill’s hips. “Don’t you dare move!”

Bill grinned wickedly, leaning in close to press their foreheads together. “Or what? You’ll ‘discipline’ me?”

“God, you’re incorrigible! How are you even real?”

Bill answered by kissing him again, fiercely, but eventually he had to stop to draw breath, and picked up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. If he was honest he was enjoying the ease of their words just as much as the kisses.

“Don’t know, sir. Not sure that I existed before. You made me real.”

“You’re ridiculous,” was all Reeves managed, laughing and gasping breathily as he kissed the length of Bill’s throat, his hands still running over his skin. “I’ve never met anyone more real. I just don’t know how it’s possible.”

“If I’m ridiculous it’s cos you like me that way. Sir. I’ve seen the way you blush. I love it when you blush.”

As he said the words he set to work on Reeves’ remaining buttons and nearly lost his balance when the man groaned against his neck and thrust his hips upwards.

“Please don’t call me ‘sir’. I have a name. Please.”

Bill’s curiosity was piqued. He’d wondered what Reeves’ given name could be but hadn’t ever fancied he’d learn it. “Alright, Reeves,” he teased, but the man just groaned all the more, unable to stop the movement of his hips against Bill’s.

“William!” he gasped.

Bill startled. “What?”

“My name!”

“What?”

“My name! My name is William!”

“You serious?” Bill began to giggle uncontrollably, his emotions too overwhelmed by physical sensation and joy until the whole situation once more seemed ludicrous and unreal. He couldn’t even stop when he nearly fell from the lieutenant’s lap and on to the floor but the confusion on Reeves’ face, on William’s face, sobered him slightly.

“What?” William gasped. “Why are you laughing? What did I do?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Bill reassured, running his fingertips over the creases of worry in the other man’s forehead, smoothing them away as he’d longed to do. “You’re perfect. Truly. It’s just... my name’s William. And your name’s William. It’s funny. What’re the odds? I really must have been made for you.”

“Made to drive me insane,” William answered in a growl, grabbing Bill by the seat of his trousers and pulling him forward in to his lap until they both groaned at the contact.

“Aw, fuck! William!” Bill gasped, laughing breathlessly. “Nah, I can’t call you that! Reeves! Oh god, Reeves!” He shuddered fiercely at the contact of William’s hand on his back as he was pulled forward, shaking so violently that he seemed ready to come apart entirely, but carried on trying to talk all the same. “Oh, if you’ve never done this before you’re a bloody natural! Bloody amazing. Should’ve seen that coming really. You’re brilliant at everything. Oh!”

William found himself nearly overwhelmed as Bill laughed and babbled between kisses, grinding himself with abandon. It was all so foreign; he’d never imagined himself in such a position. As Bill kissed him he felt as if he was barely holding pace and that surely the compliments being showered down upon him were misplaced at best. They were moving so fast, his heart beating too fast, the blood racing through his veins with such force that his bones shook and he feared something dreadful would become of him, feared he would forget to breathe or be shaken apart from the inside.

He pulled back from Bill’s lips, though it was a difficult thing, holding the young, beautiful face in his hands, trying to preserve the moment. Bill’s breath against his open lips was harsh, the skin of his face soft,  the flutter of his eyelashes against William’s cheek a delicate brush, and time seemed to slow as he allowed his body to absorb the sensations. Above him the frantic motion stilled, as if Bill sensed the deeper current of his desire and responded without any need for explantation. William leant in carefully, pressing delicate kisses to the corners of Bill’s plump lips, first to the left, then to the right, and back again, taking his time to taste and feel and appreciate. He ran his thumbs over the ridges of the man’s cheeks, pressed their noses and foreheads in to alignment as if to transfer his thoughts and love and adoration in to the other man’s mind, breathed deep and turned his head to lay a kiss of reverence to the parted, softly panting lips above his.

“Bill,” he whispered. “My William. By every god on Earth how I adore you.”

It was Bill who was shaking now, beyond violently, William could feel it, shivering as if he were naked in the snow, and William was overwhelmed with the desire to see him so, uncovered and bared before him. Not for any desire to see him made vulnerable or exposed but that he might worship him the way he deserved. He let his lips linger, pressed to those of the man above him but unmoving as he slid his hands down, brushing them soothingly over the exposed neck, the shivering, shuddering shoulders, to the open collar of his shirt, the first button. For all the posturing and overconfidence he’d displays earlier, the gasp that escaped Bill’s lips as William unbuttoned his shirt told him that the boy was as much a novice as he, as much effected by what was between them, and by the idea that they might be able to act upon their desires.

William kissed his way down the man’s neck, tasting the sweat and dust, the scent of his skin, the tingling anticipation that seemed to radiate from him as he continued to shake at every touch of William’s lips and hands.

“William,” Bill uttered when fingertips strayed to his chest, brushing over his left nipple to rest over his heart. His voice was barely a breath, but to William it seemed like the sweetest music, and filled his mind and senses. “Please,” he gasped, his head falling back as William pushed the shirt from his shoulders and on to the floor, running his hands over the dark skin he had longed to touch for so long. “Please, sir? William? Will? Please...”

In response William lifted him from his lap and guided him over to the narrow bunk in his cramped sleeping quarters, a mere alcove in the corner of his office, kissing him as they went, running his hands over the smooth, round, shoulders, tangling his fingers in the short curls of his hair. He could not deny the need in such a plea, not when the same feelings coursed through his own veins. He could not deny Bill anything, he realised, was completely powerless against the bright grins and breathy petitions and his name being said like a prayer. It was terrifying and enlivening in equal measure and as he lay the young man down on the cot and pressed their bodies together, skin to skin, heart to heart, he vowed to do whatever needed to be done in order to hear and see and feel and love William Mullen for the rest of his life. And with a delicate kiss, Bill vowed the same.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: Anxiety, war, past injury

_September 21st, 1914_  
_To: Mr Bill Mullen_  
_Asphodel Meadows, G.B._

_Dear Bill,_

_It is an odd thing, how I come to be writing this letter to you today, for as you know I am not in the habit of it when I am out and about. Telegrams yes, but letters... they have always seemed to hold a danger, even in peace times, and so I have not made a habit of writing them. A hangover perhaps from the Boer and our first turn ‘round the park playing soldiers. I have become too good at secrets. Thinking of it, have I ever sent you a letter before? I don’t think I ever have, which is perhaps remiss of me, we have known one another a long time. Then again we have lived almost within each other’s pockets for at least a decade now with but a few partings so perhaps it isn’t such an oddity. There has been precious little time for letter writing of course, for I have been rather busy, and I am afraid to say that this is all rather reminiscent of the Cape, a time I have no wish to dwell on, and no desire to record for posterity._

_Yet here I am, writing to you, and why might that be? you may well ask. Well you see, my dear Bill, I found myself amongst an unfamiliar unit this morning, thanks to a failure of my internal compass (I am sure you will laugh at that and could imagine your laughter at the look of surprise I am sure I wore when I stumbled in to the wrong trench!) but they were a friendly enough bunch and the whole lot seemed to be at the task of writing home. I confessed to them that I had few to write home to, save you, my dear friend Bill, and they all insisted upon supplying me with paper and a pen, and pressed me to write home to you, for they themselves had been assured that it is a good thing to do in order to keep up their morale and also for the morale of those left at home. I could not argue, in fact they were the most cheerful company I’ve seen in months, so I decided to take my orders very seriously (given to me by a hearty bunch of privates though they were) and now I am about it and have written you half a page without actually saying a single thing of interest. I must try and do better by you on what is left of my paper._

_I hope you are well, and that the farm is not too short of hands, what with the huge influx of recruits we’ve had (so many boys desperate for adventure. Were we ever so young and naive of the world’s ways? I was surely never so young or keen.) but I am secure at least in the knowledge that I have enough income to see our household through this period even if the fields must lie fallow for a season. Or two. You, of course, as manager of the estate, will likely roll your eyes at such a statement, but I assure you, you shall not lack for income or a safe position. In truth, I am continually relieved to receive no word from you or any other source to say that you are on your way over to join this unholy scrum. It fills me with a great peace to know that you are at home, safe, maintaining that normality I so crave to return to._

_I have begun to feel old, my dear Bill. You have oft called me “old man” but it was always in jest before. Now I feel it in my bones. I have decided that when this silly war is over a change in occupation will be in order for me. Soldiering is a young man’s trick, I’ve grown tired of it. And I do not heal nearly so quickly as I once did. A splinter I sustained to my leg some weeks ago has caused a terrible infection and I almost thought they would send me home because of it, but it was not to be. There is too much to do, unfortunately. When I do make it home to you however, when I make it home, will you take me on as your apprentice? I think I’d like to learn about what we grow and how it’s done, how you manage to crawl beneath those great pieces of machinery when they break and emerge covered in oil and dirt, and victorious. It is like tickling dragons, how you manage it sometimes, to pull a purr from such a large beast of metal. I am waxing poetical I fear. Apologies. (Freddie would think my words a fine thing, I’m sure, but I beg you not to show her, I would not live it down.)_

_Perhaps this is an argument for why I should not write letters home. I have become rather whimsical and now instead of feeling a boost to my spirits I feel melancholy._

_I hope you are well._

_Each time I sniff I am forced to remind myself that it is the cold and not emotion affecting me, and then I feel rather foolish._

_It is horribly cold already here and I do so miss our fireside. The locals are saying it’s unseasonably cold, worse than any autumn they can remember and the ground is barren and hard. The only earth not frozen solid is the mud of the trenches and I am concerned that as the weeks pass and winter approaches I shall wake up one day and find the water and mud I’ve fallen asleep in has frozen around me and trapped me. It is a ridiculous thought._

_Do you remember how we all used to grouse about the heat when we first met? You would laugh at me, I think, for my intolerance to the South African summer._

_That was a different time, and a very different war. It invades my dreams most nights, I’m sorry to say, though I have seen enough over the last couple of months to give me new nightmares aplenty._  
  
_I shall leave off writing now, I believe, for these are hardly the words you’ll be wanting to read. They are hardly ones I wish to write. Life here is simply so - how do I describe it? Even what I might be permitted to write of is beyond my description. The mud coats everything, turns even the brightest buttons a clay dust brown, dulls the brightest spirits. I hate it. And there is such sadness, such fear among the civilians. Who knows when it will end? I certainly don’t. I cannot even comprehend an ending to it all from where I stand._

_I must quit writing now. I have written myself in circles and should not be wasting my rest hours with words you have no wish to read. Please give my love to that certain person who you know I love best. You were there when I gave my vows of love to them and you alone know how to get my message to them, I think._

_Despite all I have written above I still do hold out hope of seeing you and our home again soon. I miss our fireside and the sound of your laughter and the smell of the bread you bake. I’ve never even bothered to learn how you do that, to really watch you as you work. I am trying to remember the story you told me once, of how you learned to bake at all, but my mind is too tired to think of it. That troubles me. I’ve relied on my memory for my livelihood for so long, this is not the time to lose it. You’ll have to tell me the tale again when I come home._

_But until then, my dear friend, my Bill, my William, I shall have to simply miss you and think fond thoughts of home._

_Yours, Will._

~~~~

October 4th, 1914

To my dear Will,

It is unbelievably good to hear from you. When I didn’t hear from you I worried you might have run away to France for good! We have been a little short handed and the harvest festival was a bit of a sorry affair all round this year. No one in the village much wanted to celebrate, I think, but the younger women still danced quite happily together, despite the lack of eligible men. Several asked after you and a few made do with me as a partner but I am a poor substitute, I know. The village seems half empty but Smithy helped me recruit some of the women to work the harvest and I suspect I shall keep them on permanently, if it’s alright by you. They’re fast learners, hard workers, grateful to be earning their own money. The farm is in good hands with them here.

I must confess however, having read and reread your letter these last days, I fear those same memories from our time at the Cape have been weighing heavy on my mind as well. It has, I’ll admit, distracted me from the goings on here, no matter that it’s been so very busy. Home by Christmas they keep saying but they’ve said that before. I’ll still make the usual preparations but won’t hold my breath.

I’m afraid I’ve got less skill at letter writing than you. I don’t know what to write. I can’t very well put down on paper all my worries. Friends though we are, you don’t want to be reading that. And I can’t very well ask you what you’re up to because I’m guessing it’s pretty secret. I miss your company very much. This is a big old house when I’m in it on my own, but as for you being old, you’re right, it was only ever said in jest. You’re not an old man, you’re fighting fit and I hope you know how much you have to live for.

I’ve passed on your love to your nearest and dearest and we all send an equal measure back across to you. Stay safe, William.

Yours, Bill.

p.s. Oh! I nearly forgot! You said you couldn’t recall the details of when and where I learnt to bake. I should have written about it in detail, which would have filled a letter properly, but you’ll have to be satisfied with just a little reminder, to nudge the memory in to your brain because I’ve no doubt your memory is still as sharp as ever it was. I learnt to bake bread from my grandmother. She was maid to Freddie, and of course she wanted to learn as well, but there hell to be paid when her father found out his daughter was in the kitchen with the ‘natives’ learning something so menial as baking. I still remember the smell of the bread burning because he wouldn’t let any of us move to take it out of the oven. Funny how the memory works. I’ll definitely teach you when you come home. No doubt you’ll soon surpass me and then you’ll be the one rising early to make the bread. That’ll be a fine thing.

~~~~

_October 27th, 1914_

_To my dearest Bill,_

_Why is it, do you suppose, that I always find myself writing to you when I am unbearably tired, and should rightly be sleeping? The keeping of diaries has been forbidden here as members of Military Intelligence (a certain member of MI I should say) is concerned that observations written down by soldiers could find their way in to enemy hands, and at first this seemed a very sound idea, but now I find I wish I could carry pencil and paper with me everywhere, so to write to you at a moment’s notice. I now find that I want to write to you all of the time. It is homesickness I suppose. Other men write to their families and wives, but I have neither of those things. But I do have you (I am so thankful for that) and thinking of your friendship has been my saving grace these last months._

_Tonight I find myself, through happenstance, with spare paper, and a rather short stub of a pencil, along with an inability to sleep, due to situation and circumstance (and a tree root in my back) and so have given in to my desire to write home._

_Do you know, as soon as you mentioned your grandmother in your last letter I recalled the story of how you learnt to bake. I have always loved the stories you were able to share of her, and of young Freddie. As I recall she used to carry you about like a baby doll when you were small, and remembering that, and imagining such an image, made me laugh - remembering the enthusiastic way Freddie told the story, the way you blushed at the telling... and then I recalled how, despite your stature, Bill, you’ve carried me more than once. The night of our- no. The night before I left you recalled to my mind the bullet I gladly took to ensure your safety, but conveniently forgot to remind me of how you carried me all that distance, back to safety, after the deed was done. I would have been left to die on the battlefield if not for you, Bill. And then later, you carried me again, despite your own injuries, to get me out of that camp..._

_It makes it all the more amusing I suppose, to think of Freddie carting you about on her hip. Two carefree children defying their father._

_There are so many stars out tonight, and the air is so still. I am thankful for the silence, for every shadow seems ominous, an enemy creeping toward me, but there is no sound, no crackling of the leaf litter to indicate footsteps, no human breath but my own. This place feels so deserted, as if the animals have abandoned it as well as the local people. Perhaps it is your influence on me but the ground itself feels empty and sad here, like the war has seeped in to the soil. I can feel it when I press my hands to it, that the land is hurting. Does that make any sense? Possibly not. Sleep so often evades me, at times I know the lack of it affects my thinking and makes my mind wander off in odd directions. I fear it makes me reckless._

_I can hear you tutting at me as I write that but you are hardly one to hold reckless behaviour against a man. I was never so before I met you. Not that I consider it a truly bad thing. I would not alter my friendship with you by a jot. I am pleased you have rubbed off on me, as they say. And proud. You have taught me so many things over the years. Do you recall what a novice I was when we met? We had to fumble through everything blind back then, two green boys without a clue. I would not change it for the world._

_But I must turn my mind away from such thoughts. I wish instead that I had learnt from you the skill of blowing holes in the ground... The men call the shells that fall ‘whizz bangs’. I wonder often what your reaction to such a name would be. I wonder if Bill, the boy I first met, would have adopted such a title and crowed with laughter at the irreverence of it. I wonder if Bill the man I know now would roll his eyes and frown at such a lack of healthy fear for powerful explosives._

_As I say, I am tired. My mind is wandering. I do not know when I shall be free to rest properly. I do not dare sleep tonight. In one more hour I shall need to move on from here. I only stopped to catch my breath. I never seem able to catch my breath anymore. And the weather has turned ever colder. My shoulder aches. My ribs ache. My leg, where I collided with the tree, hurts terribly as well. I am full of complaints tonight._

_I had the misfortune of running in to a man of our acquaintance recently. A very “white” man, as you would say. The sort you hate for good reason. It was jarring. And I am tired of men giving me orders. A statement which, I shall admit, sounds very much like it belongs to you. But it is true. I have enough masters. I fear I was rather blunt with him. I think you would have been proud, Bill._

_But now I have come to the end of my paper, and my pencil is blunt. My words are likely illegible. And I must pull myself on to my weary feet and set off again. Such is a soldier’s lot. As ever, give my love to my most dear one, you know who I mean. And my love and dear affection to you as well, of course. You are very dear to me, Bill. The greatest friend of my life. Apologies. We must blame such words on my over-tired mind._

_Take care, my Bill._

_Yours, Will._

~~~~

November 15th, 1914

My dear Will,

It’s so good to hear from you. You’ve had me worried, even though I know well enough that there’s little time for letter writing in a war, and you’ve little love for it as a hobby, I’ve still found myself pacing about, wondering when or if a letter will come. Egg and Fred have been pestering me for news about you as well. I’ve had letters from them, and visits. I haven’t had so many visitors to the house since high summer. Even Charlie drove down to our tiny corner to ask after you. He says he wrote to you but hasn’t had a reply and I had to remind him of how slowly the mail must be moving between England and the French trenches. He thought he’d done something wrong, that you had some reason for not writing back, and I had to reassure him that you are new to letter writing, and don’t have the time or resources to write often. He was approached, see, about shipping out and joining the fight, but he’s so nervous about it, Will. You know how he gets. He was pacing about the kitchen and I could barely hear one word in ten but he’s definitely running scared. He was told he had a week to think it over and I’ve not heard from him since then but if I’ve received a letter from you, hopefully he has too. He doesn’t want to go back, not even as a paper pusher away from the front, and I can’t say I blame him, but hopefully you can give him a little peace of mind? I don’t think he’s got much choice, really. I think he knows it.

Can you lie to him for me, Will? You’re good at that, and it’s not really lying if you’re reassuring him for his own good.

Your letter to me though, dearest friend- there are no lies there that I can see. Plenty you’re not telling me, obviously, but no outright lies... But I do worry about your lack of sleep, William. The winter has swept in so quickly here and I’ll admit that I don’t like the thought of you lying on the hard, cold, dirt, unable to sleep. And I know you’ve poked fun at my dislike for overly soft bedding but even I would find it difficult to sleep in the sort of mud I’ve heard folk speaking of. So many of the young men from the village have gone off to the front, and their letters home, while reportedly cheerful for the most part, are full of complaints about the mud and the rain. Not that the mothers and wives tell me these things. But everything goes through Smithy, and he reports to me, and so I hear all the gossip and general news.

I also worry for your leg, Will. Though you obviously want to make less of it than is there, you need to look after your body dear friend. If it’s the same ‘splinter’ you told me of in August then you should report to a medic immediately. Or as soon as you’re able. A splinter shouldn’t be bothering you months later. A splinter like that sounds more like half a tree. If it was me with an injury that wouldn’t heal then you’d bully me until I went to a doctor, you know you would.

Not that I expect you to take my advice, of course, you’ve always been horribly stubborn and go your own way no matter what anyone tells you. Which is probably why it rankles to have so many young up-and-ups telling you what to do. I’ll bet they’re running you ragged. Remind them that even you need a day off every now and then.

And if you’re referring to the man I think you are, I can only imagine how frustrating that must be. I could happily live out the rest of my days without seeing him again.

I’ve no real news to report from home, except to say that the farm is doing well, the house is just as you left it, we are preparing to plant the winter vegetables. The leaves are turning. It’s such a strange thing to watch, even after all this time, but still beautiful. Beautiful and yet... I think the land misses you. Despite the rain we’ve had, the soil feels dry and I don’t doubt that the land you’re walking on is grieving as well. There is too much death. The papers are full of it and it makes me worry for you. We all worry for you.

But you are good at surviving, you always have been and I have to believe you’ll survive this, Will. I’m teaching you to make bread, remember? And we have catching up to do. The woodpile is stocked, the fireplace is swept. It’s all ready for you, for when you make it home. They have to let you come home sooner or later.

Oh, and your dear one cherishes the love you sent and sends theirs in return. You are sorely missed.

Yours, Bill.

 

**RETURN TO SENDER - UNOPENED**  
**Letter to be returned to sender via Military Intelligence Unit, London.**  
**25/11/1914**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: Blood, violence, death, explosives, knives, guns, swearing, sex

October 9th, 1900  
Cape Colony,  
South Africa 

William crouched unseen in the undergrowth, leaning on his rifle, mesmerised by the stillness of the dawn light - the pale, colourless sky stretching above without end, the line of gilt along the ridge of the distant mountains, the barely heard calls of insects and birds in the trees behind him - and the careful movements of the lone soldier walking the tracks. His face was a mask of concentration and beauty, reminding Will of a statue carved of black rosewood, polished and perfect and so very still. It made his heart race, especially as the first proper rays of sunlight hit and traced the scene as if with gold thread. It was intoxicating, and thoroughly distracting. 

Will had tried to deny the fact that he was falling for Bill Mullen. It was useless to deny his attraction, or his affection, especially after the multitude of kisses they had shared, and more besides, but he had still attempted to argue with his heart when it told him that he also very much in love. A war was no place for love and he hated to imagine the pain either one of them would feel upon the other's death, but he could not deny his love now. Watching Bill walk, silent and alone, so focused on his task, he could not deny it to himself. 

But it was dangerous work that he did and Will tried to draw his mind away from such fanciful thoughts and back to the job at hand. He turned to check on his other men, ensuring they were watchful as they too crouched at the tree line. Llewelyn caught his eye, among the trees, and nodded, there was no sign of the Boer. Will wondered how he’d ever gotten along without the man and had to admit that when it came to missions like these, when they found themselves setting off in the dark just after midnight to arrive at the sections of track suspected of being tampered with, sneaking through underbrush and blending with the landscape to deactivate explosives or ambush Boer guerrilla squads, the Australians were best men for the job. And Bill was the best among them. 

He could sneak anywhere unnoticed it seemed, could detect black powder even when it was hidden beneath track ballast, and could catch signs of an enemy path when all anyone else saw was dirt and grass. Most of the Australian unit had grown to accept this fact, Will was glad to hear, but not all, and he knew there were many British troops who now resented the Australians among them, and Bill in particular, complaining that they were being unfairly favoured when they were nothing but volunteers, and convict stock to boot. It gave Will a headache to deal with the politics of it all and so he relished the opportunity to leave such squabbling behind at the base in favour of real, practical work. And the opportunity to watch Bill in action.

He walked the lines slowly, his steps measured, as if stalking the explosives that lay beneath the stones, his ever present slouch put to good use as he studied the ground. Every so often he would stop his careful movements and stand silently, staring at the ground with an intensity that he rarely exhibited in other areas of his life, lips pushed forward and eyes narrowed, and then would either shake his head and continue on or else look up toward Will and raise his right fist. That was the cue for three other men to creep forward to assist in moving the ballast to find the explosive, hopefully without triggering the detonator. It was dangerous work but they hadn’t lost a man yet, thanks to Bill. 

Will was grateful for that, though not so much for the heart attack Bill had nearly caused him the week before by grabbing a live detonator out of the hands of a soldier who’d accidentally pressed down upon it as he attempted to lift it clear. Will had wanted to throttle him for quite literally taking his life in his hands and had felt sick watching Bill’s nimble fingers edge the detonator free before he gave Will a panicked look and ordered the men to bolt, obviously fearful that the device might still blow. It hadn’t, of course, that time, but William still feared that one day Bill’s luck would run out and he’d end up injured or dead. If that happened Will didn’t even know who to write home to, who to inform of the man’s death let alone how he himself would cope with such a loss. Which of course left him with only one option: to never let such a thing happen. 

It was impossible to deny that he was utterly and completely in love with such thoughts tumbling about in his head and Will tried to refocus on the task before him, though that too seemed impossible, for Bill chose that moment to look up at him and grin. He had uncovered three Boer mines that morning but now, it seemed, the track was clear.

He began to trot back and Will strode forward a few steps to meet him, just short of leaving the cover of the trees, but as far as he could get from the other men. 

“All clear, sir,” Bill said with a salute once he was near enough, grinning at the way Will’s cheeks still responded with a blush to Bill’s singular show of deference. 

“Good work, Corporal,” he replied, “and you’re sure? I’ve been told we’re aiming for complete control of the railways in this district and White will have my hide if we’ve missed anything.”

Such words were mostly for show, of course. Will trusted Bill entirely in such things, but it needed to be said, in case any of the other men did happen to overhear.

“Well I can’t be having that, sir,” Bill said cheekily, though he pursed his lips to reign in his smile when he saw Will’s warning look. “It’s all clear, sir. I walked directly over the ballast that last round to make double sure. If there’d been any triggers left they would have blown, and me with them. You can tell the Major it’s all clear from here to the tunnel now, sir. Or you can have my hide.”

“Don’t tempt me, Mullen,” Will muttered, watching Bill’s shoulders bounce with barely restrained laughter. “You’ll report to my office when we return and we’ll talk about this-”

“Yes sir!” Bill whispered with enough enthusiasm to make Will’s cheeks flush all over again, and he fought against the urge to either give in and kiss the man or hit him up the side of the head to stop his foolishness.

“Well, if that’s quite all, Corporal-“ he began, but Bill looked suddenly serious and stood up straighter, a sign that he actually had something important to report.

“Actually, I did see something. On the other side of the tracks. Looked like the start of a trail, maybe. I think it might be worth checking.”

Will looked at the new earnestness he saw in Bill’s eyes and nodded. For all his slouching and joking he had noticed the desire in Bill to prove himself worthy, especially since he’d been promoted to Corporal. He motioned for them to move deeper undercover and then turned away, not wanting to seem overly familiar once they were among the men, and didn’t look back until he was beside Llewelyn.

Bill gave his sergeant the most lackadaisical salute he was capable of when he joined them but Llewelyn was no longer thrown by his young corporal’s quirks and just rolled his eyes and demanded a report, which Bill gladly gave.

“The Boer commandoes have been getting real careful lately, sarge,” he explained, shifting his feet as if he were nervous, though Will couldn’t see why at first. “They backtrack several times over when they’re on sand or loose dirt. They step over the grass at the start of the tree line so we can’t tell where they’ve entered the brush. They’re playing a hard game, sarge.”

“I know that, Corporal,” Llewelyn grunted, though he looked pleased by Bill’s assessment. “You pointed that out a week ago. Tell me what’s new today?”

Bill bit his lip at the order, clearly excited, and Will looked at the two men, suddenly noticing the shift in their relationship. The subtle changes had accumulated over months, he supposed, without him being really aware, but now he could see a dozen signs to indicate that Llewelyn’s relationship with Bill had changed and grown, just as Will’s had, if in a wholly different direction. Bill was looking to the man for approval, pushing himself mentally to impress and please and Llewelyn was pushing back, as a teacher would with a promising pupil. They spoke in a kind of shorthand and with a great deal of respect for each other. Llewelyn looked proud as he listened to Bill explain the new ways the Boer were hiding their explosives, and their tracks, and was, Will realised with pleasure, regarding Bill with very fatherly affection. 

“So if all of that’s true then how can we get the heads up on them?” Llewelyn asked, and Will scolded himself for losing focus as he quickly tuned back in to the conversation. “What’s your plan lad? Let’s hear it.”

“Well they’re smart, but they aren’t that smart,” Bill answered, his eyebrow quirking up for a second wickedly. “Not as smart as you and me that is. Oh, and you too, of course, Lieutenant Reeves, sir.”

He grinned, the wicked intent in his eyes no longer subtle and Will cleared his throat pointedly, though Bill didn’t seem to care that Llewelyn was watching them. 

“And?” Llewelyn prompted brusquely and Will felt smug at the way Bill jumped and continued on a bit less casually. 

“And they think they’re smarter is the problem. A man who thinks he’s too smart to get caught is a man who gets caught being lazy. ‘Cos they made sure not to flatten the grass at the tree line, but they were moving at night, low visibility. They couldn’t see that their boots were scuffing up the rock they were using as a stepping stone. There’s marks all over it, one looked like a clear boot print, even from where I was on the tracks. And there’s a dip in the soil right before the grass, where they had to push off much harder, to get to the stone, and the longer grass further in looked disturbed as well. With permission I reckon I could find their trail in a second, sarge. Sir,” he nodded to Will, and for once Will felt he was actually asking permission for something instead of simply using the title to get a rise, and a blush, out of him.

“Sir?” Llewelyn asked, his already large chest inflated with pride and his weathered face a mass of lines and creases as he smiled. “What d’you think? Do we have time in the schedule to sneak up on some sleeping Boer and give ‘em what for? Prove just how good my lad here really is?”

“I don’t see why not,” Will answered, lips twitching upwards despite his best efforts. “Go and ready the men, Sergeant. The usual formation. Mullen will scout ahead and I’ll take point.”

“Very good, sir,” Llewelyn saluted smartly, then nodded to Bill, who’s own chest swelled so that when he turned back to Will he was standing almost a full inch taller than usual. 

“Good work, Mullen,” Will told him warmly. “For clearing the track and for this. You’re becoming quite the model soldier, Corporal.”

At that Bill grinned bright enough to rival the sun, and as he looked up in to Will’s eyes his own were dancing with joy and mischief. 

“Does that mean you won’t be expecting me at your office tonight, sir?”

Keeping a straight face was now proving next to impossible and Will resorted to biting the inside of his cheek in order to look Bill in the eye without laughing.

“I’m sure something can be arranged, Corporal,” he said in a strained voice. “The day is still young, after all. Plenty of time for you to do something infinitely foolhardy and reckless that I will be forced to discipline you for.”

“We live in hope then, sir,” Bill grinned, giving him a salute before sauntering off to the edge of the trees to look out across the  empty track, eyes suddenly sharp and focused on searching the landscape for signs of the enemy’s trail. 

We live in hope, Will thought with a chuckle. We do indeed. He just hoped that Bill didn’t actually do something truly dangerous. There was only so much leaping and aching his heart could take before it burst in his chest, and he didn’t want that. 

~~~~

Bill felt the rifle begin to shake in his hands as the man who had been running toward him fell to the ground, any sound he might have made lost in the chaos all around them and the ringing in his ears. It had been happening more and more, usually in the midst of a fire fight, when the stakes were high and his pulse was beating so hard in his ears that it hurt beyond hope. His hearing would just seem to give up under the strain, and he’d be left at the mercy of the ringing, and his other senses, forced to trust in the men of his unit for his safety more than he liked.

As the enemy commando collapsed at his feet with a bullet in his gut Bill checked the rifle, even though he knew it was empty. He had no more ammunition but there were few Boer left to fight and no one left standing near his position. Reeves had told them to go in hard and fast and Bill had followed the order to the letter, as had Will himself, and Bill had tried to keep the man he loved within his sights as they descended upon the enemy camp. 

He fought to catch his breath as the adrenaline raged, tried to assess the situation and see what needed to be done, but the first thing he saw was Llewelyn, blocking a thrust from a bayonet and stumbling, a cut to his calf weakening his stance; and so Bill ran forward with his knife and forced it upwards in to his sergeant’s attacker, his body acting without time for conscious thought, moving fast enough that the man hadn’t even seen him coming. As blood bubbled over his fingers Bill released the blade and let the man fall, backing away quickly, his hands shaking worse than before. William had noted once, after a similar ambush, that Bill’s ability to change from a laid back and non-threatening young man to a swift and seemingly ruthless soldier and back again was quite intimidating. Bill suspected that phrases like ‘quite intimidating’ were British for absolutely bloody terrifying, but he didn’t want to force the issue. He didn’t really want to talk to Will about what they did each day, didn’t want it to be real once they returned to the barracks and washed the blood away. And because he’d seen how capable Will was with a blade and a pistol; the man could be ‘quite intimidating’ himself. 

Bill didn’t enjoy the killing, but he wasn’t about to let himself be killed, or any of the people he cared about, and he was desperate to prove that he was good at something, like Llewelyn and Will kept saying he was. If being a good soldier meant killing then he intended to be good at it, and fast.

“Christ, boy, you nearly gave me a heart attack, moving like that!” Llewelyn yelled, just loud enough to cut through the horrible sound inside his ears. He gave Bill a hearty slap on the back as he said it and that at least he understood, and gave the man a grin in return. 

He went to speak, some quip about this fight being bigger than they’d anticipated, about how being fast meant they could get back to the barracks in time for tea, but the words died when he saw, only a few feet away, a Boer draw a pistol from his belt and take aim at his William.

Oh no, not again, he thought as he ran forward, reaching for his knife, only to realise it was still lodged in the ribs of the man he had most recently killed. His gun had likewise been discarded and he was struck with sudden terror as he collided with the assailant and fell to the ground, pushing Will out of the way with as much force as he could muster as the pistol fired. The shot went wide but Bill knew that it was likely not the last in the barrel and his position was a vulnerable one. His enemy had a gun and momentum could only carry him so far when he had no weapon. Or perhaps he did, he realised, reaching in to his ammunition bag and grabbing hold of the small, metallic cylinder of his own invention, his mind racing and the ringing growing louder in his ears. He hit the man in the jaw with it, his own fingers screaming with pain as they bore the brunt of the force, but it was enough to stun the man, and Bill pressed his advantage home.

“Hold this!” he screamed as he thrust the metal ball in to the enemy soldier’s hands, and the man took it, confused as he dropped his gun and clutched the thing, whilst Bill scrambled to get away, yelling for the men around to find cover, his eyes meeting Will’s for a terrifying second as he lunged forward, arms outstretched.

He was still too close when the grenade blew but managed to push Will further before he dropped to the stony ground and covered his head. The shrapnel hit hard against his coat and struck his hands but the pain seemed far off as the adrenaline burned through his veins. In the aftermath, in the intense silence that swept in to the void left by the explosion, the three remaining Boer hurriedly surrendered, and every man in the clearing turned to stare at what was left of the soldier who had dared to attack their lieutenant on Bill Mullen’s watch. Will was looking at him in disbelief and he wasn’t alone, and Bill wondered why they were so easy with using bayonets and bullets but not a small, contained explosive, until Will pulled him to his feet and wiped the blood and hell knew what else from the side of Bill’s head.

“That was... messy, Corporal. Good work,” was all he said before he moved away to call the men to order. 

Bill was given charge of the prisoners for the trek back to the barracks, and they didn’t dare to step out of line under his watchful eye. He would have thought it funny under different circumstances - three large, weathered men afraid of a short, jittery, brown boy - but he was still covered in the remains of one of their own, after all. He could only imagine how he must look. His actions, as necessary as they’d been, had rather scared him as well. 

The march back to base camp was a long one but was mostly silent. They had lost two men in the action, and Llewelyn had been wounded, though not seriously, but they had bested a whole guerrilla troupe; they should have ben jubilant, yet every man seemed subdued. Will had told them all how proud he was to serve with such courageous men before they set off but he hadn’t dared look at Bill as he’d spoken, and when they finally arrived at the base he had dismissed the other men and ordered Bill to take the prisoners through to the cells, his words clipped, his shoulders tighter than normal and movements twice as awkward.

“Did you still want to see me after, sir?” Bill asked, though he couldn’t help but feel drained, and somehow ashamed at how needy he sounded, and at how the afternoon’s mission had ended.

“I do,” Will told him seriously. “We need to talk, Corporal, about your methods. But not just yet. I want you to take the prisoners through and then I want you to get yourself cleaned up, and I want you to have something to eat.” Bill tried to interrupt but Will raised a hand to stop him and Bill actually held his tongue. “I insist, Bill. Corporal. I have to report to Major White and then I too will need to wash and eat before I can even think about... having this conversation. You’re dismissed, Mullen. Go take the prisoners through. I’ll see you when you don’t have half a man’s insides painted on your coat.”

“Of course, sir,” Bill mumbled, wishing he could smile to ease the tension between them, but too drained to do so. “I’ll try to be quick, sir.”

“Very good, Corporal,” Will said more kindly. “But do make sure you eat before coming to see me. We have a great deal to discuss. It may be a long night for both of us.”

“Yessir,” Bill answered, the ghost of a grin flittering across his lips. “I look forward to it, sir.”

He’d had the prisoners halfway to the cells when one of them chuckled, looking over his shoulder to glance at Bill before hurriedly turning back. Bill glared, ready for the jokes and insults that usually followed such laughter, but the man didn’t tease when he finally spoke.

“We heard that the Australians were formidable,” he told Bill. “But he must be something very frightening indeed, beneath that straight exterior, for a man like you to treat him with such respect. I have seen what you will do. I do not want to know what the man who taught you would do.”

Bill wanted to laugh at the idea that Will was a man to be feared, and that he might have taught Bill anything about fighting. If anything Will had taught him restraint, but he didn’t admit any of that. Instead he grinned at the man as wickedly as he knew how and watched him shiver. 

“Just don’t try to escape and you’ll never have to find out, mate,” he said by way of answer, and bit hard on his lip to keep his laughter from bursting forth and ruining the moment. 

It gave him a happy distraction at least, and by the time he’d handed the prisoners over and scrubbed his body almost raw, his spirits were greatly restored, and he walked toward Will’s room with a bounce in his step, hoping that his lieutenant didn’t really want to spend the whole night in conversation about his less than orthodox methods. He could think of plenty of things he’d rather do than talk.

~~~~

Will gasped, trying to breathe as Bill continued to pepper his lips with desperate kisses.

“We’re supposed to be discussing your behaviour... Corporal,” he stuttered, as above him Bill began to grind his hips downwards. How did they always end up in this position? With Bill above him and escape impossible?

“So discuss it,” Bill whispered, laying kisses along the length of his neck, his breath tickling Will’s feverish skin and making him shiver. “Tell me all about my behaviour, sir. I’m not stopping you.”

Will groaned ardently and clutched at Bill’s backside in an attempt to hold him still, but it only made the pressure worse, and the throaty chuckle in his ear as he began to rotate his hips was almost too much. The blood was rushing away from his brain in favour a much more pleasurable target and he could not find it within himself to complain.

“You must admit,” he panted as Bill tugged at his ear with his teeth. “You are being... a little... distracting...”

Bill’s chuckle became more of a giggle at that; the irrepressible, joyful sound that made William’s heart sing whenever he was lucky enough to hear it, and he gave in to the sudden urge that overtook him and moved his hands to cup the man’s face as he pressed adoring kisses to his plump lips. Bill squirmed happily at the attention and Will wondered if it were possible for one person’s joy to actually overflow in to another as Bill’s seemed to be flowing in to him. 

“If I’m so distracting, tell me to stop,” Bill teased, pushing his nose against Will’s, grinning between kisses, the giggle erupting again at Will’s growl and the renewed caresses. 

“Never,” Will answered vehemently. He opened his mouth for Bill’s tongue instead and let himself be overwhelmed by the intense sensations as his body was brought to the very brink of what it could bear.

He had intended to talk to Bill when he heard the footsteps approaching his room and had opened his door with a straight back and determined frown, but the gin that had met him, and the sparkling dark eyes, had been the end of him and every script he had written in his head for their interaction was burnt to ash. There was something about the way Bill’s teeth showed themselves, just a touch, as his plump lips curled upwards, the way he just looked so utterly kissable all of the time, that made it impossible for Will to remain aloof. As soon as the door was locked behind them Bill had stretched up on his toes to press a kiss to Will’s cheek. Bill’s hands, though swollen and sore across the knuckles from their attack on the Boer commandos, slid surely over his shoulders to twine at his nape, and Will had been unable to resist letting him do whatever he pleased. 

Which was how they’d ended up in his chair, with Bill above him and Will trapped with no choice but to endure the persistent grinding of Bill’s hardness against his own. Not that he was complaining. He would gladly endure such torture over any other, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough, and Bill’s teasing movements and kisses and words were sending him out of his mind with arousal. He either needed to haul the man over to his cot so that he could strip him of his clothes and get things moving properly, or he needed to back off and give himself a few minutes to breathe - and to talk like they had meant to.

Bill seemed to sense the withdrawal and sat back, running his fingers through Will’s hair as they both caught their breath, though he continued to rock his hips in a steady rhythm, keeping Will’s arousal piqued and his mind off balance.

“So talk,” Bill ordered eventually. “Tell me everything I did wrong in that ambush even though I took down more of the enemy than any of the others and kept you safe as well. Tell me why I’m still not a proper British soldier because my methods are ‘messy’, and ‘cos I like blowing stuff up. I won’t try and stop you, sir, go on.”

There was such pain in the words and Will pressed up hard against the creased lines of Bill’s forehead, holding their faces against one another as if he thought he might be able to see in to Bill’s mind and free him of the dark thoughts of failure that plagued him.

“Your methods, Corporal,” Will whispered, running his hands lovingly over Bill’s shoulders as he measured his words carefully, his eyes flickering up to momentarily meet the other man’s before the contact became too intense and he was forced to look away.  “Your actions, dear heart, could have gotten you killed today. And that frightened me more than anything else you could have done.” He had heard the anger in Bill’s voice as he spoke, the belief that despite his best intentions he had fallen short, and he knew that his own actions after the grenade had blown had contributed to Bill’s sense of inadequacy, but it hadn’t been his intention. “I didn’t mean to make you feel... reprimanded. I was shocked at how close you came to killing yourself and, I will admit, at your use of a grenade in close combat, but I am sorry if I made you feel...” He couldn’t think how to continue and so guided Bill forward in to his arms, holding him tight and savouring the feel of Bill’s forehead tucked against his collar. “It should be me keeping you safe.”

“It’s alright, Will,” came the eventual, muffled reply. “I know I messed up. I didn’t plan it. But he... he was going to shoot you. I couldn’t be having that.”

“There are a good many people trying to shoot me, dearest. You can’t blow them all up.”

“Watch me try.” Bill laughed softly, and Will felt the vibrations through his chest, holding Bill tighter to him as tears pricked his eyes. 

He had never anticipated a love so intense as this, had not believed that a man could be reduced to tears out of love, and yet it was true and his joy and affection and need to be as close as possible to the one he loved, brought tears to his eyes, and to his cheeks, and he had no idea how to cope with such emotions. Bill’s arms crept around his waist, tightening as if he knew that Will couldn’t bear to be seen in such a state, and they sat silently until Will had managed to drag his emotions back in to order. 

“Major White congratulated me, you know,” he said when his breathing was steady once more. Bill hummed in response but didn’t try to speak and kept his head firmly against the crook of Will’s neck as he listened. “For tracking and capturing those men, for eliminating the rest. I tried to say that it was you who tracked them and... convinced those three to surrender, but he can be rather obstinate, you know. He says he’s putting me forward for promotion.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected but the lips and teeth against his neck were a pleasant surprise and Bill moved against him with renewed vigor, kissing his way up to Will’s ear, which he fondly bit before finally kissing him on the mouth, his tongue darting in to flick against Will’s and making him shiver.

“You’re so bloody brilliant, Will,” he mumbled between kisses. “They don’t know how lucky they are to have you. But I do. Oh, fuck!”

He bucked hard as Will squeezed his backside, his fingers digging in to the soft flesh, and Will decided that the rest of the talking could wait, he had more pressing concerns to attend to. With one hand still gripping Bill firmly as he squirmed above him, Will moved his other hand to the man’s flies, though his fingers were not nearly so nimble as Bill’s were and the buttons seemed to take an age to undo, made all the more difficult by Bill’s inability to sit still, and the fact that every movement sent a bolt of desperate desire to his own groin. 

Bill moaned when William’s hand finally found its way in to the wretched trousers and Will captured his lips in a bruising kiss in order to keep him quiet. He did not want to be interrupted, could not afford to be overheard, and besides, he thought wickedly, being forced to keep silent seemed to make Bill even more ardent in his affections than he already was and when Will leaned back to see the results of his work he was ridiculously pleased to see that Bill’s eyes had rolled back in his head as he lost himself in the pleasure Will’s hand was granting him.

“You’re ridiculous, you do know that, don’t you?” He watched the wide grin unfurl, the two front teeth peeking through, the flutter of those ridiculously long, black, eyelashes, the utter bliss that he was responsible for. “And by every god in heaven I adore you!”

“Help me get the rest of these clothes off?” Bill offered in response. 

“Gladly.”

Bill giggled, sounding like a boy who’d snuck in to his father’s brandy and drunk himself to silliness. “My hands are all swollen from punching a man with a grenade, and from the shrapnel. I got covered in the stuff. I look like a pin cushion. I might be a bit useless tonight, actually.”

“Then you shall just have to do as you’re told for a change,” Will teased, undoing the buttons of the man’s shirt as quickly as he was able and running his hands over Bill’s naked chest when he had it free, assessing the grazes and bruises for himself. “You’ll have to lie back and let me have my way with you.”

“Such a hardship,” Bill said drolly as he allowed Will to stand him up and lead him over to the alcove that hid his bed, where he guided Bill down on to the sheets and stripped him slowly of his clothes. “Still, I’m sure if we keep at it like this, eventually I’ll learn to take orders.”

“Well, Corporal Mullen, we live in hope,” Will murmured against his lips, finally free of his own clothes and shivering at the feel of Bill’s warm, butter soft skin against his, and the anticipation building in his gut. “We live in hope.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: scenes of war and shelling, anxiety, mild violence, swearing

November 17th, 1914  
The Western Front,  
France

Will opened his eyes as the trench shook with allied shell fire and tried to get his bearings. Men were shouting, running, preparing to return fire, and he fought to keep his eyes open against such a barrage on his senses. In his youth it had been far easier to cope, to block out the noise and the movement, but his tolerance seemed to have waned with age; every blast made him want to throw himself down in the mud with his hands over his head, begging to be spared. It was humiliating, knowing that he had lost so much of his nerve, that he was becoming cowardly but fighting the impulse to flee rather than fight was becoming next to impossible, even when he devoted the entirety of his concentration to it, and he could rarely spare it these days. He feared he was coming apart at the seams. 

He began to breathe shallowly to avoid inhaling the dust thrown up by the shell attack, and lifted his arm to block it with and to avoid the stink. The trenches all stank. It didn’t matter whether they were freshly dug or months old, French, British, or German, they all stank the same, and William hated it more than most anything else. 

The ground shook again and he took advantage of the chaos to slip along the trench unobserved. He needed to get to the munitions stores without delay, before anyone looked too closely and realised that he didn’t really belong in a German trench. He wasn’t sure how they’d recognise him as a fraud but he knew it would happen eventually. It didn’t matter how many times he’d successfully passed as a German officer, the knowledge was there in his head like something rotten, the stench of it building until he wanted to gag, worse than a trench latrine. He’d done this too many times, been lucky too many times, and he knew that eventually it would all come crashing down. He just had to hope that it wasn’t this time.

The allied bombardment continued, coming too close for comfort, Will felt, as he was sprayed by yet more dirt and dust. He knew that his mission had been set to coincide with the barrage and he suspected it was this rough because of his presence, to mask his intrusion, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden rattle of a machine gun as he wound his way along the front line, and a soldier running in the opposite direction collided with him, slamming him in to the wall of the trench with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs entirely. 

The man apologised, calling over his shoulder without slowing, and Will was relieved to see insignia that matched his own rank on the man’s arm. If he had been of lower rank Will might have been expected to dress the man down for his behaviour and he didn’t have time for that. Instead he nodded and hurried on, his heart pounding all the more. He didn’t have time to waste.

But the knock had left his shoulder aching, the ancient wound twinging and pulling as if to remind him just how easy it was to fail, and he grunted as he tried to roll his shoulder and ease the pain. It hadn’t really hurt in years, before the war, but now it seemed determined to distract him and limit his movement and ability to do his job. And the pain sparked that old fear in his head, that feeling of helplessness, which increased the nausea that was already tightening his throat. He tried to focus on the plan instead, to regulate his mind, and so ran through the steps in his head as he picked up the pace and hurried along the front line trench toward the suspected store of gas shells.

The BEF had been trying to discover the details of the gas being developed for use by the German army, but without success, and so it was decided that more direct action was needed. Agents had infiltrated factories but had been unsuccessful in their missions and what little information they had been able to glean pointed them toward this trench on the Eastern Front, which was how Will had found himself in his current, undesirable, position. It made sense of course; his cover was still good, his papers still recognised as authentic, and most importantly he was already in the best position to carry out the mission. He was their ‘man in the trenches’ so to speak, though it wasn’t a title he relished. 

All that he essentially needed to do was to enter a German trench, photograph the type of shell that was to be used to deliver the gas, and smuggle a sample back to the chemists of the allied forces. Of course he had also been informed that it would be considered highly beneficial to the war movement if he had the opportunity to deactivate or destroy any German munitions he happened to find. Reducing the enemy’s supply of poison gas was important, he’d been told, but not imperative. Finding out what was in the gas in order to either neutralise it or stop it was top priority - so he’d been told. He suspected their true goal was to replicate whatever the superior German chemists had created, but had been told that it was none of his concern. The photographs, he’d been told, could be used as proof that the German’s intended to breech 1899 Hague Treaty by launching projectiles containing asphyxiating gas, but Will suspected very strongly that he’d been spun that story to make his mission more palatable. He had developed something of a reputation, it seemed, as a difficult man to work with, when once he’d been known for being agreeable and mild mannered. 

Colonel White had berated him after the briefing for putting his personal morals above the needs of King and Country, and warned him that he was under suspicion, that there were those within MI who feared he had become a rogue agent. Will had barely restrained the urge to hit the man in his fool face and could all but feel Bill’s spirit flowing through him as he stared the old officer down. He’d spent a decade becoming an expert in his field only for men with zero experience to come along and dress him down when he pointed out that he was an emissary and a spy, not an assassin or a thief. His missions were becoming increasingly unpalatable, and dangerous, but no one seemed interested in listening. Just as they had ignored his desperate missives all those months ago, to come to some sort of truce with Germany and de-escalate the problems in Austro-Hungary, to prevent the war before it began, no one seemed to want to listen to him now. It felt, too often, that the men on the top rungs, both at home and in Germany, were eager for the war, and saw the stalemate - and lack of any end in sight - as a positive thing. But Will had seen too many boys forced to charge in to No Man’s Land, boys sent out to face machine guns with no protection. He’d seen nurses blown to pieces when their ambulance was shelled. He’d seen bodies strung up in the woods, nailed to barn doors, burned in town centers. He’d seen malnourished children and weeping mothers, and soldiers barely past childhood lying shell-shocked in triage hospitals, coming to terms with the loss of their limbs. It was too much and the longer it went on, the less he found himself able to stomach it. 

But despite his anger, despite his growing disenchantment with the military, and loathing for the chain of command, Will knew that he didn’t actually have a choice in where he was sent or the orders he was given. He could either do his job and risk his life infiltrating the enemy, or he could refuse and end up being court marshaled, and possibly face a firing squad made up of his own countrymen. It was no real choice and he knew that he just needed to survive it. He needed to survive so that he could go home and kiss his husband. That thought alone kept him moving and breathing most days.

He only wished there was some way to really ensure that Bill didn’t end up in the same predicament. The scarring around his collar and across his back twitched painfully at the memory of White’s words, the enquiry in to whether he was still in contact with “that little black chappie” who’d been so good at blowing things to kingdom come during the Boer War. He hadn’t even remembered Bill’s name and Will had seen straight through the attempt at small talk. White wanted Bill. They needed more men who had real experience with explosives, that was no secret, but it was dangerous work. He had told White no, that he was no longer in contact with the man and didn’t know where he could be found, but knew it was only a matter of time before someone tracked Bill down and tried to recruit him. They’d already come for Charlie. He’d had a panicked letter from the man to that effect, and another letter from Egg (which had been unexpected indeed) saying that she too had been approached, due to her expertise as a chemist. They would find Bill eventually and the only chance he had of keeping his husband safe was to complete his mission, make it out of the German trench, and try to strike a deal with the Colonel. He just had to make it out alive - which would have been a hard enough task if he could have done it alone.

“Keep up, Private,” he hissed over his shoulder, suddenly remembering the junior who’d been sent along as his shadow and guide. He’d actually forgotten the boy was there, as focused as he’d been on the mission, but knew he couldn’t realistically complete it without the map, as the kid had come to be known. He wouldn’t have made it in to the trench without O’Connor, a fact which, he had to admit, did rankle rather, but swallowed the small resentment and slowed to let the private catch up before he carried on forward.

“Sorry, sir,” Private O’Connor replied in stilted German, but while his voice could pass for calm, his eyes were wide and frightened. “It’s this way, sir, for another minute, less at your speed I guess. And then it’s a southward turn, twenty more steps, then we should find the shells, sir.”

“Alright, Bobby,” Will said with more gentleness, or as gently as his false accent would allow. “You’re doing a fine job. If you didn’t look so terrified the enemy would probably suspect you a great deal more. As is, you’re blending in just as you should. But time is of the essence in this. We get in, find our objective, and get out again.”

“Yes sir,” O’Connor replied, and Will felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Military Intelligence had ‘acquired’ the lad after hearing rumours of his photographic memory and this was his first real mission. He’d been promised a promotion if everything went well and Will hated that such a young innocent had been dragged in to the secrets and danger of his world. Especially with all that he knew about the boy.

He tried to look less like a British spy as he continued down the trench though he had no idea exactly what he changed about himself whenever he did so, only that convincing his body that it had a right to be there had always worked in the past. He kept his eyes peeled and O’Connor close as they walked but his tired mind wandered all the same, replaying for him the evening not so long ago, only a week after he’d met the newest MI recruit, when he’d discovered the boy’s secret.

~

“There’s going to be trouble, you know, O’Connor,” he said quietly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, giving his most inquisitive, and intimidating, stare as he sat at his desk in the dusty little reserve trench.

The boy shuffled nervously in front of him, fiddling with his scarf and scratching at a credible patch of razor rash. “Why’s that then, sir?”

O’Connor seemed genuinely ignorant but Will wasn’t convinced. It would take a significant amount of intelligence for a young private with a thick South London accent to be recommended to him, so Will wasn’t buying the dumb act. And he had a hunch.

“Why?” he asked mordantly. “Why? Because of what you are, Private. Because of what you’ve hidden from the military.” He sighed when the soldier continued to look at him blankly and so abandoned subtlety and went straight for the secret he knew was there. “Because you’re a woman, Private O’Connor. You’re not supposed to be here.”

He watched, looking for a tell, the truth of the lie. Some twenty-year-old girl couldn’t lie well enough to fool him, he was sure, but Private O’Connor only tugged at the ratty scarf he always wore around his neck, and looked annoyed.

“I respectfully disagree, sir.”

“You...” Will blinked. He hadn’t expected this and he felt a grin twitch at the corner of his lip. “You respectfully disagree? How can you disagree? You’re a woman, O’Connor.”

“Not by choice, sir,” O’Connor answered with a frown, and Will laced his fingers together under his chin, looking hard at the person standing in front of him. He stood like a man, talked like a man, appeared to shave his face like a man (though not well), but Will knew he had hit on some sort of truth.

“Alright then,” he nodded. “And what does your mother call you?”

O’Connor shuffled from foot to foot again, a mottled red blush creeping up his cheeks, his expression still of a young man who was intensely frustrated at his situation rather than a girl caught in a lie. “She calls me... my mother... she calls me nothing, sir. She don’t want nothing to do with me, sir. Not since I started going by the name Bobby. So I gone my own way.”

Watching the fierceness fall away from the lad’s face in favour of sadness and disappointment, Will felt immense empathy for his plight, falling short of a parent’s expectation was something he knew well enough, but it didn’t change the facts, or the danger O’Connor was in.

“You’re still a woman, O’Connor,” he repeated gravely. “How did you even pass the physical?”

The lad smiled at him then. “I’m good at secrets, sir, and that is one I intend to keep. I’m here because I wanted to be a soldier and do my bit. I’m smart, I’m strong. I’ve got a really good memory. Please don’t turn me in, sir?”

Will watched and waited. This wasn’t the first time he’d been faced with a young soldier far too smart for his situation and O’Connor was right, he could be very useful. Besides which, O’Connor had already been assigned to him, as his map for the mission in to the German trenches. Nothing needed to change, as long as Will kept his mouth shut. Still he stared at the man before him, willing his eyes to see properly. He had a knack for seeing details but sometimes it made it difficult to truly see the bigger picture, to see the real truth, in this case the truth of Private Bobby O’Connor. 

The lad was short certainly, but tall enough to meet the minimum requirement. He had a look of youth to him but such youth had come to be almost expected, as had the thin frame he sported. Private O’Connor spoke like a boy whose voice was still breaking and had a habit of picking at the spots that dotted his cheeks and chin. If he hadn’t happened upon the man shaving, for once without his dreadful scarf, he never would have noticed that O’Connor lacked an adam’s apple. And if he hadn’t been so tired as to be near delirious and ever so slightly paranoid (though he hated to admit such a thing) his suspicions would never have been piqued and he never would have started digging. To all intents, Bobby O’Connor was a young man, and Will made up his mind with a nod. He would just have to keep an eye on the boy, he decided, and hope that he made it through the war without an injury serious enough to expose his body and secret. It would be dangerous for them both, to keep such a secret, but he understood too well the secrecy that drove O’Connor, and the need to prove his worth.

“Alright, O’Connor,” he agreed softly. “The army says you’re a man, who am I to disagree? Just... don’t get yourself captured, alright? God knows what they’ll do to you if you’re captured and they realise your body doesn’t agree with your head when it comes to your sex. Be careful and do as your told, alright? Then we might both make it out alive.” 

~

“Sir,” O’Connor hissed, grabbing at his coat to slow him down. “Turn here, sir.”

Will startled but a glance down at O’Connor forced him to swallow his own mounting fear. The boy was on his first mission, and it was a dangerous one. William needed to hold his mind together and get the job done for both their sakes. He let O’Connor lead the way as they turned toward the spot that the arial intel had indicated as the location of the shells. The barrage from their own side was still insistent and intense and Will stumbled as the ground shook and he lost his footing. His mind was becoming unfocused around the edges, a reminder that he’d had too little sleep for far too long. He had tried to get his head down the previous night, knowing how much was riding on the success of their latest mission, but he’d spent hours lying restlessly awake, and when sleep had finally come it had been so filled with nightmares that he’d been forced back in to wakefulness within the hour. There was no room for him inside his own head anymore, it seemed, and no matter how he’d tried, true sleep had evaded him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his mind of fog, only to run in to O’Connor, who’d stopped dead in the middle of the trench.

“This can’t be right,” the man muttered, and Will blinked as he tried to get to grips with what O’Connor was saying. “This isn’t what was in the pictures, sir. It’s not shells, it’s nothing like. I don’t know what this is.”

Will looked from O’Connor’s bewildered face to the stack of large cylinders that filled the  
narrow corridor of the forward listening post. They were in the right place; he trusted O’Connor’s memory, but what they had found were not arial shells. They were too large and were shaped more like fuel canisters; they were foreign and yet seemed vaguely familiar at the same time. Will ran his hand over the smooth, black metal and the yellow symbol stamped on to it; he had seen it before but couldn’t place it. Egg would know, he thought. In fact she was probably one of the chemists working on counter measures against the suspected German chemical weapons. With any luck he’d be able to get in contact with her directly to describe what he’d seen.

“They’re almost like... tear gas canisters,” he said thoughtfully, pulling the camera from his satchel. “But this symbol is different. Keep watch, Private. There’s no way we can take a sample, I can’t smuggle one of these out in my satchel. The photographs will have to be enough. I don’t suppose you know what Cl2 stands for, do you, O’Connor?”

“Don’t suppose I ever have known, sir,” the young man smirked back, glancing at the cylinders again before returning his eyes to the exit and the men shouting and running. “It’s all getting a little intense out here, Captain. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”

“One moment,” Will whispered, grabbing the boy by his shoulder and spinning him around to face the mysterious cylinders. “I want you to look at these long and hard. I need you to commit them to that impressive memory of yours. Do you have it? Do you have the image?”

“Yessir,” O’Connor replied nervously. “I’ve got the image, sir. And the... smell. That’s odd. I didn’t notice that before. Doesn’t it smell a bit like pepper near these things, sir? I can feel it in me nose, just like pepper.”

“I’d say pineapple,” Will said slowly, his brain fighting to understand the information in front of him. “How strange.” He coughed, not an unusual occurrence considering the smoke and dust of the trench, but it set off an alarm in his mind and he stepped back swiftly from the canisters, dragging O’Connor with him as he felt an unpleasant tickle in the back of his throat and the cough came again. “We have to get away from these things. Whatever’s in them, it’s leaking. And we do not want to breath it in.” 

O’Connor turned and ran, needing no more encouragement than that, but as he made to exit the listening post he collided with a German officer and was sent sprawling in the mud, his fear evident in the shaking of his hands and lips, his wide, hazel green eyes darting about, looking everywhere but at the officer who had begun to yell at him, demanding answers. Will moved forward more cautiously, trying to gage the situation and the man blocking their way. By his uniform he was an oberst, a colonel, and he was demanding to know what O’Connor was doing in a trench that every man knew was off limits. O’Connor for his part looked terrified and seemed to have forgotten the basic german he’d been taught in preparation for the mission, and whilst it was perfectly reasonably for a private to act so when faced with an officer in a temper, he knew that if Bobby opened his mouth they’d both be done for. The poor man was petrified and William could all but see the words behind his eyes: don’t get yourself captured, alright? God knows what they’ll do to you if you’re captured, and he’d begun to shake with fear. 

As if sensing his terror, the colonel kicked at him, causing the young private to give a high pitched yelp, which in turn caused the colonel’s eyes to narrow in suspicion. At that Will’s instincts finally kicked back in to gear. He needed to keep O’Connor safe. The idea of what might happen to him as a prisoner of war was truly unthinkable and so he straightened his back and strode forward, lifting O’Connor to his feet as he greeted the colonel and saluted sharply. He pushed the boy toward the exit of the looking post as he explained that he had sent the lad to check on their latest weapon, only to discover a possible leak.

“Run boy,” he called to O’Connor, hoping he would understand the command in german, or at least realise that this was his cue to flee. “And remember. Go and tell the... the right men what I’ve told you. Don’t delay, we certainly can’t have word of this getting out. Go now.”

O’Connor hesitated for a second, wavering as if unsure whether he should leave Will on his own, but then shot off through the trench, like a rabbit navigating a warren, and Will watched him go, praying desperately to any deity who might be listening that the boy would make it out alive. He turned his attention back to the colonel, hoping to mollify him, but the man remained suspicious, firing questions at him about his name, rank, and unit, but not pausing for answers. He made a gesture and Will heard the tell tale click of at least two rifles being cocked just out of sight. Breathing carefully and making sure to keep his back straight and eyes focused ahead of him William asked the colonel if anything was wrong, and whether a problem with the cylinders had already been reported. The man’s moustache twitched, making Will want to pull at it and tell the man bluntly that it was ridiculous. Instead he remained still, waiting. He’d not been so close to capture for a very long time, but he could feel the tension, could practically taste it, and with each passing moment the urge to bolt and take his chances against the rifles just out of sight grew within him.

With a sudden thrust the colonel pulled his pistol from its holster and whipped Will across the face, sending him stumbling in to the trench wall, and forcing a cry from his lips. A second later the barrel of the pistol was against his head and one look in to the eyes of the colonel told him that he had been discovered. He had always been adept at languages, and accents, and could maintain one even when drunk or tired, but controlling the sounds that came from his mouth in response to pain were a different matter and he knew that the sound he had uttered had given him away. The look of triumph on the colonel’s face was confirmation of the fact and within the next breath he was surrounded on all sides by German soldiers.

“What are you doing here?” the colonel demanded, pushing the pistol with bruising force against Will’s temple. “What was your mission?”

William’s cheek throbbed from the recent blow and his head was beginning to spin again as his brain reminded him of how little sleep he had been afforded but he took his time and spoke slowly, knowing that O’Connor needed as much time as he could buy him in order to escape. The urge to curl up in the mud was still there, and another shell fell, not far from his position, forcing a gasp from his lips but he otherwise remained still, save for a tilt of his head, in order to look up in to the eyes of his captor. 

“Your gas is leaking, Oberst. Can’t you smell it yet? How quickly will it kill us all?”

The fear that rattled through the men that surrounded him was definitely worth the beating that he knew was to come, Will thought as he smiled up at his captor. He continued to smile until the first blow fell, sending him reeling in to the mud. He just hoped he’d given O’Connor enough time to escape and that Bill would forgive him for not coming home as he’d promised.

~~~~

December 9th, 1914  
Asphodel Meadows

Bill looked up at the banging on his door, startled by the volume and ferocity of it. Few people ever used the front door, certainly no one who worked the farm, and their friends all knew to enter through the kitchen if they actually wanted to get in. There was no doorman or housekeeper to answer the main door and Bill was rarely within doors during the day to hear a knock. Even when he was in there was no guarantee he’d hear a knock in any case, particularly if he was upstairs. It was quite the coincidence then that he’d stopped back at the house for a cup of tea and happened to have a direct and clear path from his seat to the front hall, but not a pleasant one. Unannounced visitors put him on edge for reasons he couldn’t quite explain and so he approached the door with caution, a caution which rose up his throat when the knocking came again. William had been away for months now and there had been no word from him for weeks, but Bill refused to give in to those fears or the paths they threatened to pull him down, until he opened the door and recognised the man standing on the other side. 

“Colonel White,” he said with little emotion, his heart suddenly pounding hard in his ears and blocking out even the sound of his own voice. It recalled to him the moments after the fateful explosion that had destroyed the hearing in his left ear, leaving behind a heavy, dead, silence and an anxiety that never truly left him.

Colonel White had aged well, unscarred and fair skinned, and Bill found himself hating the older man for it. He had been one of the men who’d made Bill’s life hell, one of the reasons William had ended up a prisoner of war, and the reason Bill had been discharged and left high and dry, a broken man with few prospects and a disability that he could not help but feel a residual shame over. Seeing him in the doorway, threatening the peace of his home, was almost too much.

“Corporal Mullen,” the Colonel answered with a nod, and Bill focused carefully on the man’s lips to understand his words until he had calmed his heart enough to hear again. “You are well, I trust? I must say I was surprised to hear that this was your home. May I come inside? I have something rather delicate I need to talk to you about.”

Bill wanted to tell him no, that he could go to hell, that he wasn’t welcome. He wanted to yell it in the man’s face and slam the door, wanted it so much it was an itching in his veins, but he didn’t speak, he didn’t trust himself to. Looking at White made him want to cry. Instead he stood aside just enough to allow the colonel past him and in to the house. He didn’t speak at all until he’d walked back to the snug kitchen and the kettle was on the hob for a new pot of tea, and even then the words stalled at his lips and had to be forced out.

“Are you here because of... Reeves... sir?”

There was a grunt and Bill forced himself to turn away from the stove and face the large man dominating his kitchen. Colonel White had been made in the same mould as every other big brass toff Bill’d ever met, his chest puffed out as if to compensate for his complete lack of chin, and the sound he made in response to Bill’s question was so inherently insulting that the urge to force the man from his home and life began to bubble up again, and it only got worse when the man actually answered.

“Captain Reeves and wherever he may be deployed, and in what manner, is none of your concern, Mullen.” Bill wanted to hit him and something about the way he straightened his spine must have given that away because White actually flinched and his tone became something more conciliatory as he continued. “It may also be that I have not in fact seen Reeves for some weeks. I do not know the details of the particular mission he may or may not be currently engaged in.”

He seemed to be testing the waters, to see whether Bill understood that Will wasn’t just a run of the mill officer, and he gave the barest nod.

“What’s this about then?” he asked, keeping his words blunt. He knew the Colonel expected more deference but Bill wasn’t a military man any more and didn’t owe the older man anything.

“Well, Corporal, since I can see you’re keen to get down to the facts, I shall be blunt. The truth of the matter, the nub of it, at its core, is that we have received information, very troubling information, about the German army’s use of mines and explosives. They have been undermining our positions and the information we have received, from certain sources, suggests that they intend to use these frankly medieval strategies to force an advantage.”

He shifted uncomfortably as the kettle began to whistle and paused his report as Bill turned away to fill the pot and prepare two cups. He didn’t start talking again until they were seated opposite one another at the worn kitchen table and Bill wondered if the man did so on purpose, because he remembered Bill’s hearing loss, or whether it was nothing more than a coincidence.

“When the question was raised, among the high-ups,” White said with care, and Bill wondered how high up a man had to be in order to be considered so by someone like the Colonel, “it was deemed necessary to put in to place our own crack team. The French and Belgians are gathering their own men and bully to them I’m sure, but our military might is legendary and the general feeling was that we should not be outdone by less, shall we say, ‘able’ nations. My superiors demanded that we gather the best men for the job, and-”

“No.”

The word came out with such force that Bill’s chest ached. When William had become caught up in the action Bill’s first instinct had been to follow him in to it, to find him and follow him everywhere and anywhere to keep him safe, but now, faced with a call to arms at the behest of the government and military, he simply could not do it.

“Your name was raised, Mullen,” White pressed on after taking a moment. “You were one of the best. Certainly the best I’ve seen.”

“Thirteen years ago, maybe,” Bill countered, his hands shaking at White’s implication. “You have new explosives now, new experts, and younger men to do the deeds.”

“True,” White acknowledged softly, his creased brow and inward expression worrying Bill more than his words. “But you were still the best, Mullen. I don’t think I quite appreciated that at the time. You could build a bomb out of any damned thing, if memory serves, and get it exactly where you wanted it as well. I saw you lift a wired explosive clear from loose track ballast safely. For all your insubordination, Mullen, you were good with mines and dynamite, and your hands were steadier than any I’ve seen. And so, yes, we have experts to make the damned things, and they tell me there really hasn’t been that much change in the technology in the last decade, and we have young men in large numbers, true enough, but they don’t have the experience. I would wager my commission that none of them are half as brave or canny. Not like you, Mullen. You were the best. You were-”

“Reckless,” Bill cut in again. His chest was still aching, the panic wrapping itself around his heart tighter and tighter the longer the Colonel carried on talking, but he couldn’t let the praise pass. “I was a seventeen-year-old boy when I went in to that war and like all boys I thought I was invincible. It was a belief that I was soundly disabused of,” he shuddered, willing his body back in to some kind of restraint. “You disabused me of it.” He took another deep, steadying breath but couldn’t meet the man’s eyes as he continued. “I was too young then, to be at war, but none of your ‘high ups’ cared about that did they? Well now I’m too old. You’ve got a whole new generation of boys to send to the slaughter now. I wouldn’t even pass the physical.”

The silence stretched out between them and as White sipped his tea thoughtfully Bill turned his eyes to the window and concentrated on settling his breathing properly. He stared at the movement of the elm tree that sat just beyond the kitchen garden, focusing on the movement of the branches and the way the sunlight seemed to dance just above the leaves rather than on them. The lasses out in the field would be wondering where he’d got to soon enough. He’d told them he would check in on them mid afternoon and they were a curious bunch. They’d come looking for him soon enough if he didn’t appear.

“You’re what? Thirty years old?” White spoke eventually, his voice careful, reasonable. “You’re still young, Mullen, and in very good physical health it seems. I see no impediment.”

“Really?” Bill raised his hand deliberately to the scarring around his jaw and neck on his left side where the shrapnel had hit.

“Superficial,” White shot back, but his voice had softened yet again, as if he knew what they were building up to but couldn’t bear to admit it before time.

“No,” Bill admitted at last. “Not just superficial, Colonel. I can’t hear. Not on my left side. I can’t... I would be a liability in the field. Being able to blow a bridge or plant a mine or run like hell doesn’t count for much if you don’t hear the enemy coming or your sergeant telling you to duck the incoming fire. I can’t help you.”

He felt strangely calm in the wake of the confession but when he attempted to lift the tea cup to his lips it shook so violently that he returned it to the saucer undrunk. White’s own cup was empty and Bill could see his fingers fidgeting around the handle, tracing the curls of the china.

“I was unaware of your age when you entered my regiment, Mullen,” White said eventually, and though his words were muted, he kept his voice firm, speaking so that Bill would be able to hear him with ease. “All I knew of you was that you were trouble and that you worshipped the ground that Captain Reeves walked on. I was not quite prepared, one might say, to believe that you were still living in his shadow but when I came here, and saw you, I will admit that it didn’t much surprise me. You were always devoted to him, as I recall.”

“He saved my life,” Bill answered simply. “And he was one of the only officers who treated me like a human being,” he said pointedly. “So I owe him my life. Everything I am now is thanks to him.”

It was hard to curb his emotions but Bill forced himself to stop before the true nature of his affections were recognised.

“The bond between soldiers can be a strong one,” White acknowledged after another pause. “Though I admit I’ve not seen one so strong as yours, between a man at arms and an officer particularly.” He left a silence, as if waiting for a response, but what did he expect Bill to say? What was there to say? He had no wish to go back to war and he was not obligated to do so. “If you were to agree, there would be no physical to go through, nothing of that kind. You would be entering the BEF as an expert. I’ve no idea why the Ordinance Corp didn’t snap you up years ago, deaf or not. There might even be a promotion in it for you.”

Bill shook his head, unable to stop himself once he’d begun, hating that his eyes were prickling, and that it was becoming difficult to breathe. “I don’t want a promotion. I’m not going back. I’ve no interest in your recruitment drive or your war. I think it’s time you left, sir. We have nothing more to say to one another.” He stood, pushing it home that he was done with the conversation, but White didn’t move.

“And what if I were to tell you that the reason why I do not know the whereabouts of Captain Reeves is because... no one does. He’s missing in action, last seen entering enemy territory, missed his return deadline. His whereabouts are unknown.”

Bill felt his heart drop like a lead weight, and a flush of heat prickled over his skin. Missing in action. He wanted to be sick but there was no way he was going to show such weakness to a man who’d run him around in circles and lured him in to a false sense of safety.

“You underhanded son of a bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth, stumbling over his chair as he backed away toward the kitchen door.

“Now hold right on there, Corporal! Language!”

But Bill didn’t bother with a reply. He made it to the door and flung himself through, taking in deep, painful breaths of air as he marched away from the house and out in to the garden, trying to pull himself together. Showing affection, devotion, friendship, all of those things were allowable, but he could not let someone like Colonel White see him cry over William’s safety. No matter how it pained him to think that his most beloved, his husband, was lost behind enemy lines, he could not grieve so openly, not without risking their lives all the more.

Instead he let the anger take hold, fueling it until he felt sure it would burn through him or blow him apart completely, like kerosene being fed into a barrel full of flames. When he heard White’s footfalls on the path he turned to confront him and must have looked like a bull ready to charge by the way the man jumped. Good, Bill thought. He had an advantage, if a small one, and he needed to exploit it.

“Why keep that from me ‘til now?” he demanded. “And how could my joining save Will? What point could you have in coming here and telling me Reeves is lost other than a desire to cause me misery?”

“I did not tell you because...” White swallowed nervously. “You are not supposed to know. I am not supposed to know. Reeves’ family haven’t been notified and there is presently no intention to.” 

Bill snorted. As if Will’s siblings would care what befell their half-brother. They felt no love for him, yet were considered to have more right to the news of his death than Bill.

“Then why tell me and risk your own damn career?”

“Because,” White hesitated. “I was under orders to convince you by any means. A few other old hands are being tracked down as well, men of courage who have proven experience in the field. Men who won’t blow their own fingers off their first day out on the battle field. Any means necessary they said, Mullen.” He shrugged rather dramatically but all Bill could see was the over-confident young Major who’d been told four of his officers had been taken prisoner by the Boer and had given that same shrug. He’d called it a shame, then immediately asked his batman what was on the menu for supper that evening. “You’ll end up conscripted one way or another, Mullen. It would be better, surely, to join while you’ve still got a choice in the matter?”

“Choice?” The urge to hit the man in his under-defined jaw was back, because he could see now that he was trapped. “You call this a choice?”

White didn’t say no, but it was obvious in the change of his stance. “If you agree to report for service in five days I will do all within my power to find out what has happened to Captain Reeves, and to pass that knowledge on to you, where it is feasible for me to do so, of course.”

“So what you’re offering me is the opportunity to volunteer to be blown to bits before I’m press-ganged in to it? And as a prize you’re offering me a chance of a suicide mission to liberate my... my dearest friend, from behind enemy lines?”

“I would certainly never word it that way,” White answered, frowning, “but you have done it before.”

It was no choice at all really and he knew that once he reached France there was no guarantee he’d be able to track Will down and even less chance he’d be able to launch a successful rescue. It sounded like suicide, and that was before he factored in the reality of living in a war zone and the daily handling of explosives again. It was madness of the worst sort.

“So... who’s going to be the ringmaster of this circus?” he asked quietly, gazing out over the beloved fields of his home. “Do I report to you, or...”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: Homophobia, past deaths (non-graphic), Sex

December 16th, 1900  
Cape Colony,  
South Africa 

William lit a cigarette and flicked the match out in to the thick velvet of the night, aware of Bill’s eyes on him as he did so, or rather on the match, and then the glow of the burning ring of paper. He glanced over for a second but looked away quickly, unable to process the hunger he saw in the other man’s eyes, the fire reflected there; he was already sweating in the damn heat, he didn’t need Bill looking at him like he was something worth ravishing. Bill, it seemed, could never be satisfied when it came to flame and dynamite and sometimes William feared he came in at a very poor second in Bill’s list of desires but that look gave him a strange sense of pride, as if he were something truly worth the having, worth the taking. The thought made him shiver, despite the sticky heat, and he turned back to the silent woodland around them, the stunted, scrubby trees and strange grasses, the buzzing of insects, and the air like ink, wet and somber. By the gods how he missed home, but with every passing month the end of the war seemed to step back and out of reach, their goal ever beyond their grasp. The frustration of it all was making him bold, and imprudent, but none of that seemed to matter when his actions at least gave Bill some joy. That was his true reason for living now, and he thought wonderingly at how his heart had changed, even if he did his utmost to appear the same, staid and stale man in his daily dealings with the world. By night, in Bill’s company, he was allowed to be reckless, and it was a most addictive drug. 

He sucked hard on the cigarette, enjoying the burn, the fire in his throat, the knowledge that Bill was staring at him with a voracious kind of longing but not wishing to acknowledge the look just yet. He was still shaken from the ferocity of the blast that Bill had produced less than an hour ago and needed to settle his nerves before he attempted anything else. They stood in silence against the trunk of a broad tree, catching their breath and recovering from their sprint away from the destroyed Boer safe house, at ease with the quiet between them, Will happy enough to simply feel the heat radiating from Bill’s body as they stood side by side. The safe house had been empty, which Will considered a good thing, and he had felt no qualm about letting Bill destroy the structure, but he was glad that the deed was done. Bill would hopefully be more settled now, for a few days at least, until the itching returned to his fingers again and he dragged Will out to find another building or bridge or mountain to blow it to the heavens and create a heart of blossoming fire in the sky.

“Does your family know?” Bill asked out of nowhere, his voice drifting out on the breeze to disappear into the dark of the scrub, soft and melodious. “About you, I mean? About your being... attracted to men... I mean.”

“Are you mad?” William turned to look at the man next to him, sure that the question had been a joke, but Bill looked serious, as serious as he ever did, his eyes flickering between William’s eyes and the bright glow of the cigarette between his lips. The curve of his cheek and his lip shone in the moonlight, outlining his features in silver until Will felt sure he had fallen in love with some unearthly sprite or nymph, a creature of moonlight and shadow. Bill’s grin, when he caught Will staring, only seemed to confirm the fact, and the flash of white as his teeth peaked through his lips as he smiled was enough to recall Will to their current conversation, and Bill’s ludicrous question. “They’d kill me” he said wonderingly. “They’d disown me in a second! Of course they don’t know. I wouldn’t dream of telling them. Why would you ask me that?”

Bill shrugged as if the question had been a simple one but his eyes slid away from William’s and back out to the dark expanse before them, slouching further against the tree as if he wanted to disappear in to the bark. 

“My grandmother knew,” he said eventually. “She was a good woman, she would’ve liked you. And my sister, she knew. And some of my aunties. I knew from when I was very small, see, so it wasn’t a big deal, I think. They didn’t seem to think it was evil or strange. We didn’t tell the white folk though, so I understand you not telling your people.” He looked up at William and bit his lip to hold back a smile and Will wondered how wide his eyes were and how ludicrously shocked he looked. He couldn’t blame Bill for laughing, he was sure his eyebrows had disappeared in to his hairline. 

“I can’t imagine such acceptance,” he whispered, looking up at the scattered stars above them to avoid the pity he was sure he would see in Bill’s eyes. “It’s illegal, under British law,” he added eventually, to which Bill rolled his eyes.

“I know. Trust me, I know. I just wondered.”

Will plucked the cigarette from his lips and flicked it out in to the darkness, slipping in to a smile of his own at the way Bill’s eyes compulsively followed the flame. He’d never known someone to be so obsessed with fire but Bill seemed to understand it in a way that Will had never experienced before, as if it was alive, sentient, and compliant with his every whim. Bill loved fire, which was an extreme understatement, and Will couldn’t help but indulge him, even if it meant sneaking away from the barracks in the dead of night to act as sentry whilst Bill went about the business of blowing brick and stone to dust. 

It was a risky business, for both of them, but after a lifetime of doing just as he was told and following orders to the letter, Will couldn’t deny the thrill of skulking about, ducking the sentries, and running off together to do just as they pleased in the darkness, even if he knew it was stupidly dangerous. 

“I know,” he whispered, echoing Bill’s earlier words, though Bill startled at them, having apparently been deeply lost in thought. 

Will let his hand slide across to touch Bill’s, stroking his fingers delicately, teasingly, before twining their hands together and squeezing his hand, hoping that Bill would understand the emotions he was trying to convey even if he didn’t know how to speak them. The firm claspe of Bill’s hand in return reassured him, and when he glanced over Bill had turned to look at him with eyes dancing with moonlight and affection in equal measure.

“They wouldn’t really kill you, would they?” he asked suddenly, catching William off guard until he continued and explained himself. “Your family, I mean. They wouldn’t kill you if they knew you loved men intimately instead of women. They’re your family.”

Will considered the question. He could brush it off simply if he chose to, it was of little consequence after all, considering his family were on a different continent and could not presently communicate with him in any reliable way, but one look  at Bill told him that such a deception, even so minor a thing, would be unthinkable. Bill looked so earnest, so concerned, and Will was overcome by a need to be truthful with him, as Bill always was with him. 

“Not from here,” he said jocosely. “But I have little doubt that if I were in England, and if I were to tell my father, or word was to reach him, of my... preferences,” he glanced across nervously but saw only concern, rather than judgement, in Bill’s eyes. “He would arrange for some unfortunate accident to befall me. He wouldn’t want word to get out and he is a rather powerful man in his way. He has connections, you might say. My mother, for example, met with an accident; she fell down the stairs and died when I was fourteen.” He licked his lips, hating to relive those days, the first Christmas that he spent in his father’s company, being quizzed and tested at every turn, insulted and demeaned in every interaction. “I was away at school at the time,” he shuddered. “My father only claimed me at the principal’s insistence. My step-mother likewise met with an accident, a fall, and the rumour goes that my uncle died at a tender age when a ‘game’ he was playing with my father got out of hand. He is a cold and indifferent man.”

Bill shivered and clutched his hand tighter, pressing his shoulder to Will’s arm and his forehead to Will’s shoulder in an odd, sideways sort of hug, his face the very picture of concern as he pressed a kiss to Will’s arm. 

“But he likes you, thought? I mean, as long as he doesn’t catch wind of you and me - and I’ve got no plans to tell him! - but if he thinks you’re straight-laced and righteous, he likes you well enough, doesn’t he?”

Will chuckled. “As well as he likes anyone. And more than I probably deserve as his illegitimate son. It’s probably because his other children are ‘wastrels without brains’. And I wouldn’t tell them a jot about myself either; they have no love for me. And if my mother was alive I wouldn’t tell her either. She’d disown me, or turn me in. Most people would turn us in without a thought, Bill, you do know that, don’t you?”

It was Will’s turn to look concerned and Bill’s turn to chuckle as he pressed their bodies together, moving as if he were dancing and looking up with a rueful grin on his full lips. 

“I know, William. Don’t worry. You keep telling me I’m not an idiot and I know I’m at least smart enough to keep my tongue about this. Your tongue however-“

The insinuation itself was enough to make Will’s groin tighten and begin to throb, and Bill’s hands in his hair, dragging him down, and Bill’s tongue in his mouth, thrusting and scraping, and his hips, his hardness, pressed to Will’s thigh, all sent his mind spinning, and a desperate need coursing through his blood. He whimpered, glad of the tree at his back as his knees trembled, his body unable to cope with the fierceness and suddenness of Bill’s attack as he did the only logical thing and kissed Bill back with as much passion as he was capable of, as much passion as he was receiving. 

When he felt a hand snake down his chest and then press firmly between his legs, kneading his hardness, stroking and teasing, his head began to spin with the intoxication of lust, and the whimpers became moans. Bill grinned against his lips, groaning with his own pleasure before he turned his attention to Will’s exposed throat, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. Will had left his top buttons undone to combat the thick heat but knew he would be unable to do so for the next couple of days at least going by the way Bill had latched on to his throat, and his hips bucked upward at the painfully pleasurable sensation, and the danger inherent in letting his lover mark him in such a way, in doing such things out among the trees where the enemy could discover them - of doing such things at all!

All concerns for safety fled from his mind when Bill slithered down between his legs and opened his flies with the speed and skill of a man who had a very singular goal in mind. Will let his head fall back, the rough bark snatching and tugging at his hair, and brought his hands down to scrape along Bill’s scalp, tangling his fingers in the thick, dark curls, loving the needy sound that escaped Bill’s lips at such treatment, and the way the sound vibrated around his manhood as Bill took it to the  back of his throat, making him lightheaded with pleasure. 

Will had read about such acts of course, had all but devoured such reports in the eager days of his youth, but had never imagined he would be on the receiving end of such love making. His rational mind fled every single time that Bill decided to fall to his knees, tugging Will’s trousers down with him. Each instance seemed to be the beginning of some sort of fever dream rather than real life, but the warm breeze across his thighs and the hot, wet, suction around his erection convinced him that what was currently happening, no matter how unlikely, was in fact very real. 

“Tell me what you like, sir. Tell me what you want,” Bill purred beneath him. “Give me an order. I’ll do whatever you say, Captain Reeves, sir, just give the word and I’ll do it.”

Will looked down and whimpered. Bill was stroking his erection lazily with one hand whilst his other could just be seen pressing and squeezing his own hardness, still trapped within his trousers. His lips were swollen and wet and he was kissing the tip of Will’s member lovingly, teasingly, gazing up with wide, mock-innocent eyes as he spoke.  
   
“What?” William stuttered, transfixed by the sight of his manhood disappearing between Bill’s lips as he began to take him in to his mouth once more, bobbing his head and building up a steady rhythm before pulling off again suddenly just as William felt the heat coiling tight in his groin.

“Give me an order, sir,” Bill repeated teasingly. He licked along Will’s shaft, slow and wet and deliberate, holding eye contact as he did so, and then resumed his stroking as Will attempted to widen his stance, his hands gripping the tree behind him for balance. “I can’t go any further without an order, sir,” Bill continued huskily. “I don’t want to act out of turn. You have to tell me what you want, sir, or I’ll just have to carry on with what I’m doing, sir, and that might not be so satisfying, sir, if you get me.” Will squeezed his eyes shut,  unable to watch Bill any longer, on his knees, the very picture of debauchery, but Bill refused to relent and stroked him harder. “Tell me what you want, William,” he ordered.

“Lick me,” Will whispered at last, his skin burning with embarrassment at admitting to what he wanted. “Suck me. Please.”

Bill’s tongue against the sensitive skin of his testes, already tight to his body in anticipation, was almost Will’s undoing, and within a minute his entire body was shaking, hips moving of their own accord, thighs trembling as he attempted to spread them ever wider, head thrashing from side to side as he was overcome with sensation. He sobbed when the attention ceases but Bill’s lips were replaced with his hand, kneading and pressing the delicate flesh and sending sparks along his spine. Bill’s mouth meanwhile returned to his member and he did exactly as William had begged him to, with enthusiasm.

His orgasm, when it came, caused Will’s knees to buckle, sending an intense heat through his bones and stretching his muscles and tendons to breaking point, and after the initial excitement Bill guided him gently to the ground, skimming his clever hands over Will’s overheated, oversensitive skin, stroking him through the after shocks until he pleaded for it to stop. He could not seem to catch his breath, and the pleasure would not recede, and through the fog of it he became aware of Bill’s hardness pressed against him, still trapped within his trousers, and so did the only sensible thing in such a predicament and urged Bill to take his place, standing against the tree while Will repaid him the pleasure he had given. 

Bill had no trouble giving orders, or telling Will exactly what he liked and what he wanted, and Will was grateful that they were an hour’s walk from the barracks because Bill’s ability to control his volume soon vanished and he cried out loudly as he bucked in to Will’s mouth, holding his head steady with his hands as he thrust relentlessly. Will, exhausted and spent, his mind still floating in a stupor of post orgasmic bliss, could not complain, and found himself aroused anew at being so manhandled and used, if only in mind rather than body. A rougher than usual tug of his hair made him whimper around Bill’s erection which seemed to act as a trigger, filling Will’s mouth with boiling seed until he was forced to swallow or choke, as above him Bill moaned loudly in to the night, gasping and laughing, his hips pitching wildly and forcing his manhood to the very back of Will’s throat over and over.

Despite having brought Bill to orgasm numerous times during their months together Will had never seen him do so with such abandon or force as he did that night, and felt sure that his own orgasm had been greater than any he’d experienced before. He felt euphoric, drunk, and when Bill collapsed beside him he could see the same sensations swirling in his lover’s eyes as he shook and giggled and nuzzled in to Will with a delirious affection. 

Undeterred by the less than pleasant taste that lingered in both their mouths Bill leaned against him and kissed him, lazily, lovingly, and Will wrapped his arms around the smaller man, holding him tight to his chest, suddenly terrified in the wake of such fierce adrenaline and lust. They would need to pull themselves together and head back soon, before the sky began to lighten and their absence was noted, but he held Bill close for a minute longer, needing the comfort of his presence for as long as he could. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from Bill now, from his William, no matter the danger and illegality of what they did, but knowing that they did so under such precarious conditions made him feel hysterical. He couldn’t bear the thought of Bill being hurt or killed in action, of what it would mean to lose such love when he had only just found it. He could escort Bill when the compulsion to play with fire at night became too much to fight but how could he protect him in battle? The thought frightened him beyond comprehension and he pressed a desperate kiss to the top of Bill’s head, unable to think of any solution to his dilemma. He would just have to be careful, he decided, and hope they might be lucky, and stay alive for the duration of the war.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: vomit, illness, disease, death ideation, pain.

December 18th, 1914  
London Central Station  
Great Britain

In the smoky, crowded, station a train whistle shrieked, skewing Bill’s ability to tell where each sound was coming from and causing his heart to race suddenly. He hesitated a moment, trying to get his bearings, before continuing forward, jogging to keep up with Freddie, who had carried on without him. She shot him a look when he caught up, concern written clearly on her chiseled face as she looked him up and down and seemed to see something less than satisfactory. He hated when she did that, it made him feel like he needed to quit slouching and grow up, even though he knew the ship had definitely sailed on any chance of him growing ‘up’. He’d never be any taller, and would always be her junior. He’d come to terms with all of his loved ones looking down on him, mostly, and that he’d never be any less of a disappointment to them but it still rankled from time to time.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this, William,” she grunted around her cigarette, scowling around at the bustling station.

“You’re not alone there, Fred,” Bill replied shortly, but didn’t bother explaining to her again why he was doing what he was doing. He was still struggling to convince himself, and they’d had this argument a dozen times already. Freddie was never going to understand why he’d agreed to rejoin, or why he was being deployed so swiftly. He couldn’t tell her everything, not like he wanted to. He couldn’t make the facts of his deployment public knowledge in case word got out and they lost any advantage in the field, and he couldn’t tell Freddie that Will was missing in action because he wasn’t supposed to know. It was all a hideous mess and he was reminded, yet again, that war was always messy and that he hated it for so many reasons. 

His skin prickled in the new uniform he’d been given and the sigil of the Royal Engineers felt strange, like he was an impostor and could be outed as a fraud at any moment. He’d never been an expert in bombs or artillery, he was an infantry man, a Queensland Imperial Bushman. He’d been brought up blowing holes in mountains and improvising when he had to, yet for the last week, since he’d reported to the Artillery, men had been treating him like he was something more than a nothing soldier who’d barely been worthy of the promotion to corporal. It was strange, and it put him on edge.

“Why did they want you so badly anyway, Bill?” Freddie asked, as if she was reading his thoughts. She had a knack for it, always had, but there were secrets between them now, and Bill hated that. 

“They probably need some barns blown up,” he replied drolly. “And they’re calling in all the old guard, not just me. If I didn’t know to hold my tongue I’d say this war isn’t going in our favour.”

He was shoved suddenly in the left shoulder and reeled as a young soldier passed him, part of a group of cocky lads, and Bill felt the panic creep up further as he watched the boy’s lips move, as he was told to watch himself. He didn’t try to reply, there was no point, so he tried to appear unperturbed. A glance back in Freddie’s direction told him that she at least had seen beyond his facade. 

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” she asked seriously.

“Of course I am, Fred. Ain’t it nice to be needed and all that? I’m just... not used to crowds. It’s been a while.”

“Thirteen years at my count, dearest,” Freddie shot back. “Are you sure this was your idea? It’s all been very hush-hush. First Willie, then your good self. Why exactly do they want old soldiers when they have all these eager young men? Or have you simply woven me a tall tail because you want to go off to join your husband?”

The last question was barely spoken aloud but Freddie had gotten very good at articulating well enough for Bill to read her lips, and she knew him well enough to read the tightening in his eyes. 

“Nothing so romantic I’m afraid,” he whispered. “And I doubt you’d want to know the facts, even if I was free to tell you. I don’t anticipate this being pleasant, Freddie love.”

“We’ve already been seeing that,” Freddie huffed as they carried on along the platform, Bill eyeing the numbers, looking for his sergeant and the carriage he was meant to be aiming for, but glanced toward across at the frustration he heard in Freddie’s voice. “I’m supposed to be an obstetrician but men are coming back, hacked up in battlefield hospitals with infections set in deep under the skin. I keep being asked to assist in patching up amputees. It’s what I get for being a better stitcher than the men. That’s what they tell me. And no one seems to know where to put all the poor souls once we’re done. We just don’t have enough beds. And it all comes down to money, I fear. My inheritance is good, I’m not complaining, Bill, I know how lucky I am,” she smiled grimly. “But it’s not, ‘start my own convalescence home’ good, and at this rate our hospitals and rehabilitation homes are going to be flowing over in to the streets.”

Bill stopped a few steps away from their destination. He’d seen the sergeant, and while he was a decent enough man, Bill wanted to finish his conversation and farewell Freddie without an audience. An idea had occurred to him and he needed to follow through on it before he missed his opportunity.

“The house is yours while we’re gone, Freddie,” he told her carefully, taking her hand to ensure he had her full attention. “Will put my name on all the deeds and paperwork and I know that in his will... if anything should happen to him... then Asphodel Meadows goes to me. And my will... it names you. I know it’s a lot, asking you to oversee the property and the farm staff, and I’ve written up the plan for what crops should be planted in each field, and Smithy will help you in any way you need, and the younger lads all seem to be enlisting but we’ve got some amazing women working there now, and they all know what to do.” He took a nervous breath, aware that his emotions were getting the better of him and that he could not afford to show weakness. “I’m sorry to dump it all on you. I didn’t know who else to trust, especially at short notice.”

“Oh, Billy,” she said graciously, “you know you can ask me for help in any thing, love. I’ll get people on to it. We’ll manage.”

“I know,” Bill told her, squeezing her hand and looking up at her face ardently. “You’re brilliant at that sort of thing. And I am deeply grateful, love. Truly. But what I’m saying is, it’s a big house, Fred. Plenty of bedrooms, spacious servants quarters. I mean to say, I’d rather you stayed out of mine and Will’s room but otherwise... It would make a fine convalescence home is all. If you really do need one. I wouldn’t object.”

The fierceness of her embrace knocked the wind from his lungs and he grinned, thrilled at being able to bring her joy. When they parted, arms still twined around each other, Bill’s eyes caught those of his sergeant, who was watching him with amusement and raised eyebrows. Freddie wasn’t often so affectionate, and she dressed in a fashion that let the world know that she was not a woman to be tamed to a man’s will, and he was sure that they seemed an extremely mismatched pair. He wondered what the man thought of him for such a display. He wondered what the man thought of him at all.

The weight of the unknown was terrifying but before he could voice his fear Freddie had leaned in again to kiss his cheek tenderly. Bill clutched her arms, swallowing the urge to giggle hysterically, and gave her a smile instead, grateful to her in so many ways, but unsure, now that the moment had come, how to leave the safety of her friendship. When they had been children Freddie had always done her best to look out for him, even when it had meant getting on the wrong side of her father and stealing the keys to the tack room to let Bill out after he’d been locked in. He suspected that she still felt that need to protect him and so lingered in her embrace for as long as he could.

“Freddie, I-” he tried to apologise for all he was burdening her with, but she would not hear it.

“You’re a good man, Bill,” she told him without further fuss, not giving him a chance to fall victim to his emotions or fears any longer. “Go win a war. Go find your man. Go blow something up.”

~

Bill didn’t feel like socialising on the train or the ferry. He found a quiet corner and let himself disappear among the various units being deployed to the front, trying not to think overly much about what they would face when they arrived. The men around him seemed too young, too excited, and he couldn’t summon the spirit to join their conversations. He was left alone for the most part and wondered if his demeanour was in anyway imposing or whether he simply looked old and sullen, and therefore boring to the younger soldiers around him. 

At some point, hours in to the journey, his sergeant, a man by the name of Evans, came down the line and made to sit by his left side. Bill looked up sharply at the intrusion and saw Evans’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The man had a pair of very expressive eyebrows in an otherwise gruff and weathered face, a fact which Bill filed away to think over later, for now he worried he’d got his sergeant off side. He pointed to his ear instead and Evans answered with a grunt and a lowering of his bushy brows, then moved to sit on Bill’s right side instead. 

“That’s going to take some getting used to, Mullen,” he said once he was settled. “Under normal circumstances I’d take it up with my superiors, why they’d given me a deaf man as a soldier when I’m trying to fight a war, but none of you specialists we’ve been given are really run of the mill soldiers, I’m finding. I’ve been doing the rounds, meeting you all properly, hearing your stories, but you were a task to track down.” He left a pause for Bill to speak but he wasn’t sure what was expected so kept his mouth shut and waited. Luckily Evans seemed to like the sound of his own voice well enough, and he started up again after a moment. “See, Jones over there worked diffusing explosives in Ireland, same goes for Brown, they’re well acquainted. Harris doesn’t have as much field experience but is a very good diffuser whose been with the AOC some three years. Clarke, the short fella near opposite you yonder, he’s been with the RE for over a decade, fought in the Boer. I hear you were there too.”

Bill weighed his words carefully before he spoke. he wasn’t sure how much the man already knew, or what he expected to be told in a crowded ferry, but knew that this pause was one he was meant to fill. 

“I was there,” he admitted. “I was infantry. Queensland Imperial Bushmen. I’m afraid I don’t have the specific training some of the other men do. I’m no expert. I always just had a knack for blowing things up when I wanted to and knowing which wires to pull to stop things blowing when I didn’t want them to. I know I’m not your first choice but believe me, ending up back in uniform wasn’t exactly what I wanted either.”

Evans nodded thoughtfully, his heavy brows coming down to form a dark V above his eyes as he thought over Bill’s words but when he spoke again his tone was light, if louder than Bill would have liked.  
   
“The story I heard was that you undermined a prison compound and staged a break-out. The report that crossed my desk said you liberated fifty men, including several officers. You were wounded in the action, took shrapnel to the face and lost the hearing in your left ear... and then went on to serve in the Number 3 Flying Column, the only Aboriginal Australian to be recruited in such a fashion. I’ve heard about the Number 3s, Corporal. They were elite. And they requested you. You were the best.” He paused again, as if expecting Bill to confirm or deny such a statement. “I have to say, Corporal, I read those reports and wondered why you weren’t awarded anything for your bravery.”

“Insubordination,” Bill told him, staring down at his boots. “I was an idiot kid going against a direct order when I liberated those men. I went awol from my unit because I snuck up on a POW compound and spent a week digging a hole under the wall. I mostly just got lucky, I found a blind spot. They don’t give out medals for that. They thought I’d get myself killed in the Number 3s and solve their problem for them but I ruined the plan by living through it. I was lucky to get discharged rather than court marshaled.”

Evans’ chuckle was unexpected but there was no malice in it, and Bill felt the tension in his muscles ease a little as the man’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter beside him. 

“You sound like just the sort of man we need, Mullen. The German’s are fighting dirty, so the reports and rumours go. They’ve already begun undermining and few of our men have a clue how to do it. I spent most of my career in Egypt and while I know a whole lot about explosives and shells, undermining wasn’t really part of the job. You’re going to be our expert, for a little while at least. I’m glad I’ve got you, Corporal.”

Bill nodded and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. The ferry was lurching in the waves and he couldn’t tell if it was the movement or the anticipation that was causing the building nausea in his gut.

“I just hope I live up to the expectation, sarge,” he said quietly, keeping his head down to avoid any eye contact in the crowded space. The men around him were looking at him differently. One was staring with outright wonder and it made him feel like a fraud. “I’ve been living the quiet life a long time.”

Evans nodded. “But not married? I saw you with your young lady back at the station and I have to say, Mullen, I don’t think you need to worry you’ll disappoint.” He laughed at Bill’s look of confusion and slapped him heartily on the back. “You’re a braver man than I could ever claim, you best believe it. Blowing up enemy strongholds is one thing, courting a lady doctor, courting that lady doctor, is quite another! She safely delivered my wife of twins a year ago and I am forever in her debt, but she frightens the living shit out of me!” 

The sergeant’s voice had increased in volume as he spoke and Bill was aware that the other men around him were chuckling at what they’d heard, so shrugged and continued to look at the floor, though he didn’t try to hide his grin. Hell knew what Freddie would do to him if word got back that he was claiming her as his sweetheart, but it was unlikely she’d ever find out and it was safer than being considered single, or to try and say he had a lover but refuse to give details. There would be no push for him to dally with local girls on leave this way and if they thought he was brave for courting a fierce suffragette it was better than them thinking it for anything in his past.

Evans stayed a while longer and told Bill a little about himself, and showed him a photograph of his wife and five children, including the twins. He asked a few more questions about Bill’s military record as well and he was grateful that, while Evans probed and suggested, he didn’t ask outright about Bill’s misdemeanors and disciplines. It would come out eventually, he was sure, assuming that the sergeant didn’t know the details already, but was relieved to be able to keep it secret from the other men.

Soon enough word filtered through that they were preparing to dock, and the laughter began to drain away, replaced by a general unease. The younger men were still trying to joke about the enemy they’d overcome and the girls they’d meet, and the adventure of it, but the words had a false ring that left a bitter taste in Bill’s mouth. He’d agreed to this, had signed back up, donned the uniform, made the journey, but he didn’t want to be there. He understood why they thought he was needed, and why they thought he should be proud to serve, (even if they were mistaken on both counts) but he still didn’t want to be there. 

He stepped from the ferry and out in to the freezing rain and stared out, his eyes drawn inexplicably to the east, his heart clamouring within the prison of his chest like a hound catching a scent, as if it knew where it’s other half was waiting. He swallowed the fear and longing that were threatening to bubble over but couldn’t extinguish them completely; there was only one reason he was really there, pathetic though it seemed, a reason he had denied to himself but could not ignore any longer. His boots hit French soil and he pulled French air in to his lungs and he felt a calm that he knew was counter intuitive. This was why he agreed to join. He needed to be near Will. He needed to be near his William. He knew the chances of finding the man were slim but it was better to at least be on the same ground, in the same country as the man he loved, with the slightest hope of tracking him down, than it was to sit at home and worry himself to death, separated and alone. 

Sergeant Evans called for his men to fall in and Bill set his thoughts aside as he shrugged on the role of soldier once again and made his way through to the front of his unit, but couldn’t deny the grin that crept on to his lips. Every step he took inland was a step closer to Will, he felt it most assuredly, and he was going to cherish that as best he could.

“Come on, men!” Evans yelled. “Lets go blow some Boche!”

~~~~

December 24th, 1914  
Wittenberg Prison Camp  
Germany

William pressed his face against the cold stone and tried to breathe, realising too late that using his nose was a bad idea as the bile rose swiftly and he leant forward just enough to miss his own legs as he vomited. He wondered whether his captors would move him back to the officers camp if he promised not to attempt to escape again. He certainly felt broken enough to tell them whatever they wanted him to but they had given up interrogating him. He was of no further interest it seemed, and his two failed escapes over the last month had simply made him a nuisance. 

He tried to shuffle away from the puddle of sick by his side but there was nowhere to go. The man beside him wasn’t moving but Will couldn’t tell if it was because he was dead or simply asleep. He would die soon, Will guessed. His skin was grey and he hadn’t moved or made any sort of sound since the previous day. He’d shown Will a photograph of his family back in Ireland, when he’d still had the energy to speak, and Will had smiled at the two little boys, William and Michael, the man had said, and had tried to commit the soldier’s name to memory. Patrick Madigan, he repeated over in his head again. When he finally escaped his current hell and made it home he’d kiss Bill, sleep for a week, and then find some way to support the children of the man dying beside him: Patrick Madigan, he told himself again and again, honouring his memory was another reason to keep living and he clung to it desperately.

He could feel his muscles beginning to shake again, his skin prickling as the cold sweat overtook him, irritating the sores that a covered every inch of his own grey skin. He’d never considered himself a particularly fastidious man. He took care in his appearance, and appreciated hygiene in himself and others, but he had never thought of himself as overly concerned with such things. Now he wanted nothing more than to scrub his skin completely away. And burn his clothes.

He had once attempted to understand the fascination Bill had for fire after watching him play with a candle flame for almost an hour, but hadn’t been able to see the appeal at the time. Bill had sat happily, running his fingers over the flame, lighting scraps of paper and letting them float toward the ceiling, tipping the candle to manipulate the fall of the wax, catching the hot droplets in his hand before they could hit the table. Will had found himself enthralled watching Bill’s enchantment, but he hadn’t understood the fascination and love the man felt for fire. Now however, Will thought he would like nothing more than to take a match to the whole damned camp and watch it burn. 

He had never experienced lice before, let alone ones that carried typhus, and he wondered how long it would be before he succumbed to the disease like so many of the men around him had. The winter was a wretched one; he’d seen the frostbite several of the prisoners were sporting, yet his body at that moment felt unbearably hot. He wasn’t fond of the heat, it reminded him too strongly of his last experience as a prisoner of war, when the heat had been so intense he’d thought he’d die of it. Those aging memories paled in comparison with his current situation however, and he wondered idly whether he would die from exposure to the cold, or in a typhus fever dream.

“Reeves!” a voice called out through the barracks but William didn’t look up. He was nameless in this place, hadn’t spoken a single word to identify himself since his capture, so there was no way he could have just heard his name being yelled out through the fetid air of the dying prison camp. “Captain William Reeves!”

He lifted his head, confused, but it couldn’t be real. Even when one of the guards approached cautiously and prodded him with the end of his rifle William couldn’t comprehend the fact that he was being called by name, and escorted from the barracks. He wondered if they were finally going to shoot him. It would almost be a relief now. The only thing which stopped him welcoming death at that moment was the memory of Bill, standing on the drive before their home, his dark eyes overflowing with emotion, begging him to be careful and to come home soon. He needed to find a way through this, he reminded himself. He needed to survive, whatever the cost.

Bill wouldn’t have ended up in such a position, he thought as he was prodded through the frozen yard by not one but two german rifles. Bill would have succeeded in his escape, would have found a way to blow a hole in the wall and make it out. Will hadn’t even made it out of the building. And now he was going to die. It was sad, he thought, as he was led through to the guard building, all of the soldiers careful to keep their distance from his diseased body and their weapons trained on his chest. Perhaps, he thought idly, if he received any warning of his impending death, he should lunge at his captors and hope that his lice infected them. It would be a small victory, but he was unlikely to win any other way.

He was ushered in to a small cell, but nothing like the others he’d seen so far. The walls were grey but looked recently painted, and the floor was swept clean. There was a chair with a neatly folded pile of clothes in the centre, and a table that held a basin of water, a wash cloth, and a towel. The water was still steaming, Will noted, and he moved toward it instinctively, unable to stop himself, not caring whether it was somehow a trap. 

“You are to clean yourself,” a guard’s voice barked from the doorway. “Leave the old clothes in the corner. They shall be burnt.” 

“Well thank every god for that,” Will muttered as the cell door slammed shut. 

He’d worn the clothes for a month and being able to remove them was enough to make him weep, though the pain of the stiffened fabric taking his skin with it may have contributed to his tears. He kicked the offending garments in to the corner of the cell, shivering violently but overjoyed at finally being free of them, and began to wash himself as vigorously as he could manage. He still felt nauseous, dizzy, not quite himself, but the warm water was working wonders and he found himself smiling as he scrubbed his face and hair. He didn’t dare look at his leg, the renewed infection in his calf, but washed the inflamed skin as best he could, whilst fighting the pain and renewed urge to vomit, not that there was much left to bring up. 

He was still shivering when the water was black and the cloth unusable, and wished he could have had at least two more basins, because he didn’t feel nearly clean enough, but he had removed the worst of the grime and dried blood, as well as most of the lice, and he found himself crying again in relief.

He turned to the clothes, surprised to find a comfortable pair of trousers, and a shirt, underwear, socks, shoes, jumper, and warm coat, all in his size. He was suspicious but wasn’t about to deny his body such comforts and dressed quickly, laughing with relief when he was able to sit down on the chair to pull warm, hole-free socks on to his feet. He hadn’t worn new socks for an awfully long time. Even at home he had insisted on darning his socks at the first sign of a hole. Being ordered to put on socks that looked and felt as if they had never been worn before, by his enemy, was jarring and the room span sickeningly around him as he bent forward to tie his shoes, making any deeper thought impossible. He was simply grateful to be clean and warm and away from the stench of death and the lice that had bitten him raw.

After some time the cell door opened and a guard gestured for him to exit and walk down a long, well lit corridor. Will felt dizzy but didn’t complain. There was still a chance he’d be shot, even if it seemed odd to dress him in new clothes for the occasion, and so he went where he was told until he was stopped outside a door and told to enter. The neat little study he then found himself in only added to the mystery and he entered with a good deal of skepticism, and mostly thanks to the rifle barrel still pressed to his back.

“Ah, Captain Reeves! Enter, enter! How wonderful to see you again.” 

The guards left and man who ushered him in to the room was very different from what he might have expected. He was dressed in military uniform, though without any obvious markers of rank, looked close to fifty years old, was balding and rosy cheeked, with sharp, intelligent eyes sparkling behind his small round spectacles. In short, he looked nothing like a prison guard, which gave Will another reason to be cling to his suspicions. The man continued his friendly chatter as he guided Will toward one of the two comfortable chairs arranged around a cheery fire but, Will noticed, he didn’t actually touch him, and the chair was covered in a thick, albeit very agreeable blanket. Apparently they were far from ignorant of the diseases plaguing their prisoners. They just saw no reason to do anything about them.

“Such a shame about your poor skin,” the man told him in lightly accented english as he fussed about, laying another blanket over Will’s knees and pouring him a glass of water. “I have called for a doctor and he shall see you as soon as he arrives I am sure. Would you like a coffee, Captain? Or I have dry biscuits. They are just the thing, I am told, for a ‘dicky tummy’ as you English would say.”

Will wanted to remain silent, or at least turn the man down, but his stomach rumbled desperately and so he nodded his assent to the biscuits and drank his water carefully, aware that his body would struggle to accept anything after so much vomiting and too many days on sparse rations. He looked around the room as he sipped his drink, trying to catalogue the details and make sense of what he saw, but it was a difficult task. His vision kept slipping and his mind was distracted by even the most simple movements and sounds, like the clink of a spoon stirring coffee, or the crackle of the fire before him.

He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to banish the vertigo that was overtaking him and then began to focus his mind again, starting with the walls. The wall paper was vaguely yellow and displayed two photographs, one of a large battalion of soldiers, the other of Kaiser Wilhelm II, and then a painting of a quaint pastoral scene. It could almost be the English countryside, he thought hazily, for it seemed achingly familiar, and so he turned away from it, sipped his water, and studied the rest of the room. There were no personal photographs or knick-knacks on the shelves or mantle, nothing to indicate that this office belonged to the jovial man arranging biscuits on a china plate and preparing coffee, no matter that he was playing the host so naturally. There were no papers on the desk either, nothing that Will would be able to use to his advantage should he escape, and when the man turned to smile at him Will saw in his eyes that no matter how friendly, this was still an interrogation. 

“The clothing fits you well, I see,” the stranger continued as he placed the biscuits within Will’s reach and then settled in to the chair opposite. “I knew I would recall your size, you have not changed a jot since last we met. And the socks are from my wife; she makes the warmest socks, wouldn’t you agree?”

He smiled and sipped his coffee, waiting for Will to answer, but only silence filled the room. Will had never been interrogated with kindness before but he understood the use of small talk to extract information and knew that his best course of action would be to refrain from speaking. Unfortunately he also suspected that remaining silent would make for a short interview and a quick return to the stinking, overcrowded barracks, and he wasn’t sure he could bear that, not when he was finally warm and almost comfortable. As if to remind him of his true circumstances, his body took the opportunity to begin trembling, sending pain through his muscles that no brutal interrogation technique could match. If he kept the man talking, but did his best to give little away, he would at least be able to warm himself through and give his body some chance of recovery.

“I do beg your pardon sir,” he said carefully, his voice weak and uneven from the bile that had burnt his throat. “But have we met? I do not recall your face.”

He thought that the question might throw the man, or perhaps insult him, but he smiled instead and even chuckled.

“Oh I expect you have quite forgot our acquaintance,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But I worked in London some years before the war. We met socially, several times. Such a shame our two nations are now at war, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Will agreed as he reached for a biscuit, nibbling it cautiously, fearful of poison of course, but more concerned that eating too much would lead to a fresh wave of nausea. 

“But you are not a man one forgets, Captain,” the man continued. “And when your photograph found its way to my desk, beside a claim that you were nameless, I felt obliged to rectify the situation. You are an officer. A gentleman. One of England’s finest. Like your father. You look just like him, if perhaps a little thinner.”

“My father is dead,” Will said quickly, wishing he could have held his tongue but unable, it seemed, to stop himself. “He passed away some time ago.”

“Yes, of course,” the man replied, though Will thought he saw some surprise flit across his round face. “My condolences. But the rest of your family, they are well? You must write to them of course, they must be worrying most terribly about you. I shall fetch you paper and pen immediately.”

He bustled over to the desk and Will craned his neck to see, though he knew it was unlikely he would catch a glimpse of anything of note, the reflex was just too deeply ingrained to fight. The only papers he saw were blank and when the nameless officer returned with everything necessary for letter writing Will left the pen where it was, noting once more how the man refrained from making direct contact with him. Will didn’t blame him; his hands were covered in sores and bites and he was sure the rest of him was equally frightful. He finished the biscuit he had been steadily nibbling but resisted the urge to take another as his body was overtaken by another round of shakes and pain.

“Do you not wish to write to your family, Captain Reeves?” The question seemed innocent but Will could see that the man was fishing for information, weaknesses perhaps, that he would be able to exploit in later interrogations. “They must be worried for you. In my reading I find you have been with us almost month, and so your wife, your children, they must have been worrying over your safety all that time. And it is nearly Weihnachten. Christmas. You must write to your family, Captain, and reassure them that you are well and wish them many warm regards for the season.”

Will let out a huff of laughter at such an untruth, and took pleasure in looking the man directly in the eye as he spoke. “I have no wife, sir. I have no children.”

“I see,” the officer responded, but the longer he stared the more Will feared what he would actually see and so turned to look in to the fire, hating that he had revealed a potential weakness to his captor. 

It was a relief when the man changed the subject, speaking of his time in England, his love of the countryside and his particular enjoyment of fox hunting. He made no explicit attempts to draw Will in to the conversation but after what must have been an hour Will found himself offering his own observations, trying to keep his remarks vague and general, but unable to resist fond talk of home. More food was brought and despite the pain in his muscles and head, Will felt revived. He ate the broth that was set before him, and the bread, forcing himself to take his time, both for his health and to put off any end to the warmth and comfort.

“It is such a shame that a landowner such as yourself has become entangled in this war, Captain,” the officer said eventually, pouring Will a steaming cup of tea. “Our militaries must be desperate indeed to call old horses such as ourselves back in to action, would you agree? Yet here we are, and we must make the best of it, I suppose.”

Will stiffened, his mind signaling alarm at such a question, though it took some time for him to realise the danger of the leading question. 

“I would not say my military is desperate, sir,” he replied thoughtfully. “They required my skills and I was honoured to serve.”

The man smiled, broader than before, and settled himself back snugly in his seat, sipping his tea with apparent relish. “And what skills they are, Captain? What skills brought you to one of our trenches? You have something of a reputation, did you know? Our best men searched long and hard for your identity, it was quite the mystery, for you seemed to have at least four. Four different names, four sets of perfectly valid papers: four men but only one face. It was quite the conundrum, can you imagine? Only your face could be agreed upon, the proof that you were not an innocent German officer but instead a British spy sent to undermine our efforts. And sabotaging our munitions, that is a serious crime, Captain. It is fortunate that I found you when I did; there are many who would have killed you or let you die for such a crime.”

The threat in the words was now plain, even though the smile remained, and Will tried to mask the shaking of his muscles as he schooled his face to calm indifference. “One might say the intention to use Chlorine gas is a far worse crime, sir. And I doubt you have proof for any accusations against me. I am, as you have pointed out several times, your prisoner, and as such you have a responsibility to ensure my fair treatment.”

The man shrugged and Will felt a shiver of a different sort run down his spine, one which had little to do with the typhus attacking his body. He had been sick with worry when he’d first realised what the Cl2 symbol on the canisters meant and the same sick feeling returned at seeing such indifference on the face of the seemingly jolly man. 

“We have no confirmation of your identity and you have no family to write home to, to confirm your existence. An unknown man may so easily become lost in a place such as this. It has become a messy war, Captain, and you are unwell. A skin disease of some kind, I suspect. Something you picked up in a British trench before your arrival here, no doubt. What am I to do for a man who will not help himself? But if you were to confirm your identity by simply writing home - a simple, painless request - we might be able to process you properly, get the doctor to you and, in time, return you to more comfortable accommodation.”

Will turned back toward the fire, trying to think. He used to be good at this, at weighing options. If he gave away too much, he would like as not face serious consequences at the end of the war. If he lived to see the end of the war. If he refused to cooperate he had no doubt he would be returned to the typhus infested barracks, or shot and buried in an unmarked grave. Then again, he thought darkly, there was always a chance that, no matter what he told them he would end up dead. He didn’t trust the man sitting opposite him, for all his charming conversation and cups of tea he was an intelligent, ruthless man.

A sudden sharp pain in his gut reminded him that his options truly were limited and that he had little bargaining power as nausea swept through him with renewed ferocity, forcing him to clamp his jaw shut and press his palm over it for good measure. All the while the German officer watched him, impassive, and Will knew he was expecting a favourable answer.

“I could perhaps write to the manager of my estate,” he said breathlessly, when he was able. “You would then have the name and address of my home. The name of my employee. My word that I am... unharmed. Is that what you want?”

The German officer smiled at him, his small spectacles glinting in the firelight. “I only want the opportunity to talk with you further, Captain. I have visited Britain so many times, as many times as you have visited Germany, I suspect, and I am sure we have many mutual acquaintances. I would like to know what you know.”

Will nodded. The perspective of a foreign spy was probably very tempting, could certainly be used advantageously if enough time were devoted to the task of extracting the information. He hesitated, hand hovering over the pen and paper, uncertain still as to which way he should go. His hand was shaking, bitten raw by the lice, thin, and of a terrible pallor. A choice between life and death was no real choice, he decided, and he felt no true loyalty to the officers who had sent him in to enemy trenches. He felt concern at the thought that his information would be used against the vulnerable infantrymen on the front lines, but resolved to say only what would show the German weaknesses and how he had exploited them. He had made a promise to Bill, he reminded himself, and could not bear the thought of letting him down again. 

And so he lifted the pen and began to write, trying to ignore the grin of his captor as he gave up a portion of his soul.


	12. Chapter 12

February 5th 1901  
Cape Colony,  
South Africa 

“William...”

Will smiled at the gentle whispering of his name, him mind hazy and warm in the orange glow of the candle, and the glow of love. He turned, settling himself back among the sheets of his narrow cot, delighting in the brush of his hip against Bill’s as he did so. Even after so many months he still wasn’t truly accustomed to the feel of naked skin against his skin, of being able to run his hand over the smooth chest of his lover. It made him feel drunk, to be so free and uninhibited in his actions, and he kissed his William’s lips tenderly before replying.

“What is it, my love?”

“When this is over, do you think...” Bill paused, eyes darting down, lips parted, mulling over his thoughts as if unsure how to put them in to words. “I’m a volunteer, see. I don’t have to stay with the military. And I’ve heard jokes - comments from some of the men - about leaving us... us aboriginal soldiers behind when they go-”

“That would never happen,” Will interjected, sitting up sharply, disturbed by the very thought of it. But Bill simply shrugged as if such threats were common enough, and Will made a note to look in to such talk, and stamp it out among his ranks. 

“You’re a good man, Will Reeves,” Bill said with a sad smile. “But, whatever does happen, I thought... If you and me are both still alive at the end of this... I’m not sure I want to be sent back. And I thought maybe, when this is over, if we’re alive, I might, possibly, come back to England with you?”

William didn’t know what to say, was too overwhelmed by the devotion, and yet the sadness, of such a statement. His eyes searched Bill’s for any sign that this was all some jest, that he was teasing. He was certainly an expert in making Will blush and stammer and lose his words. Any declaration of affection from Bill was enough to strip him of his composure, no matter how simple an action it was, or how exaggerated, but in that moment Bill seemed entirely serious.

“But don’t you miss your home?” he pushed gently, not wishing to cause an argument yet desperate to understand. “I thought you missed it? Why don’t you want to go home?” 

“I do miss it,” Bill acknowledged, his voice cracking. “I miss my family, my people, my land. It’s as if...” he shook his head. “I don’t think I can even describe it in words a white man would understand.”

“What?” William turned to face him properly, dragging the sheet with him to cover his nakedness, feeling a little insulted though not entirely sure why. “Why wouldn’t a white man understand?”

Bill looked up at him, his body still passive against the rumpled bedding, the whites of his eyes ludicrously bright in the dark room. There was a sadness in those eyes, and something else that William couldn’t immediately identify. He hoped it wasn’t disappointment.

“I was grown from that land,” he said truthfully, his voice a heartbroken ache. “It’s part of me and I’m a part of it. It’s in my bones and my blood and my skin. Do you understand that feeling? If I went home I know I could stand on the land that I’m born from and feel whole and connected again. If I could get my feet flat on the rocks, in the land of my mother’s people... then I know the feeling of constantly being off-step, of being on a boat when the waves are the wrong side of rough... I know it would settle... and I’d be able to breathe better. But I can’t.” He sobbed once but forced back the tears that were threatening to fall, his nostrils flared with the effort, shaking his head furiously, whilst the tears danced across the surface of his eyes. “I can’t, Will. I’ll never get to have that. Because that land isn’t there anymore. White men came and killed that land, killed my people, killed my mother. If I go home,” he looked up at Will, baring a sadness to him that was suffocating in its intensity. “I’ll be treated like an animal, Will. Less than an animal. I’ll be a _thing_. That’s all we are to them. _Things_. Free for the killing and slaving and beating. It’s not much better here mind,” he said with a watery smile and a shuddered breath and William could see how much it cost him to put forth a brave face when his heart was bleeding. “But with you at least... with you there’s at least one person who sees me as human. One person who sees me. I don’t want to lose that now I’ve found it.”

William swooped down to capture Bill’s lips in a kiss, desperate to smooth the sadness and heartache from the lines of his face. The weight of what Bill had said was crushing and he felt desperate to alleviate it but knew there was no way he could really do so. He’d been brought up to believe that Britain was the rightful inheritor of the earth, that their civility and greatness were a boon to the primitive nations they conquered. He’d never considered the lives of the people they took over and subdued. They truly had been trained to see them as less than human and bile rose suddenly in his throat as the realisation took hold. He ran his thumb along the perfect, bronzed skin of Bill’s cheek and shivered at how unbearably soft it seemed. The thought that under different circumstances he might have dismissed the man’s humanity sent an ache to his own heart and he sought to relieve it by pressing another kiss to his lover’s lips. It soon became a whole series of messy kisses as Bill brought his arms up to enfold him in a tight embrace, heat coursing through them both like a spark racing along a fuse. Will’s body shuddered at the delicious slide of skin on skin as he threw his leg over Bill’s thigh and sat astride his narrow hips, such a new sensation still yet one that he now felt he could never live without. He wanted Bill, needed him, not just in his bed but beside him in his life. He wanted to learn and grow and become a man worthy of the love Bill showed him. He wanted to be worthy of the trust Bill had in him, and he needed Bill by his side to do that. 

Bill’s hands scraped roughly through his hair, tearing a moan from between his clenched teeth, but then those same fingers fluttered with the utmost care down over his neck and shoulders, eternally fearful of aggravating the scar left by the bullet that had hit just a year before. William skimmed his own fingers over the matching mark on Bill’s shoulder, the bulging, misshapen scar tissue that was, despite its appearance, soft and smooth, but stopped when he saw Bill turn his face away, his eyes clenched tight and mouth twisted, as if the wound still pained him. It wasn’t the wound of course, but the memories stitched in to it that pained Bill and he worried himself to distraction daily, desperate to make amends for what had happened, even though Will had no regrets. He would gladly take a dozen more if it meant keeping Bill safe - without hesitation - and so ducked his head to kiss the knotted flesh, worshipping the sweet, treacle coloured skin until Bill’s breath began to hitch and he pulled Will back up to kiss him properly, rocking their hips together with such force, such energy, that Will felt his head spin. He would prove to Bill that he was worthy and human, beautiful and special, he decided. He would prove it in every conceivable way, and so pulled his lips free from his lover’s, gasping raggedly as he tried to speak. For he could not let the thought that had bloomed in his head die unsaid.

“I don’t have a great deal of money,” he uttered as Bill continued to rock his jutting hips, and his erection, against Will’s own growing hardness. It had barely been an hour since they’d made love but the need was terrifyingly intense all the same and he did not wish to deny it so hurried his words along. “I’m not entirely sure what I’ll even do when all this is over, but...” he clenched his jaw against the moan that threatened to escape, which surely would have been heard across the entire barracks. Being discovered in such a position was unthinkable, but not so unthinkable as spending the rest of his life without Bill. “Everything I have, we can share. What’s mine is yours. If you’ll have me.”

Bill responded with a redoubling of their kisses, attacking his lips with such passion that Will could restrain himself no longer and rutted his hips desperately against his lover’s, swallowing the groan that escaped Bill’s lips. 

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Bill whispered, clinging to Will as they increased the pace and force of their movements. “Work for you, protect you, keep the world from laying a damned finger on you. Never leave you. Oh fuck, Will! I love you.”

Will tried to breathe but gave it up in favour of another kiss, delving his tongue between the younger man’s plump lips, pressing their bodies together until it seemed that their very heart beats were aligned. “I’d give anything for you,” he murmured, kissing along Bill’s jaw to the crook of his neck, resting his head there, eyes tightly shut as his body moved as if driven by a force beyond his control. Bill whimpered, his hands clutching at Will’s back, his neck arched in invitation, his muscles taut. “I’d give anything to keep you safe. I love you.”

As Bill let out another mewl Will latched his mouth on to his neck and bit down gently, knowing what the sensation would achieve, reveling in the hard thrust against his aching erection, that he had caused such a reaction, that he knew how. He’d never tire of this, he felt, would never have enough. Whatever happened, he vowed to himself, he would bring Bill home safe with him, and show him a life without war or death, a life where he was valued without question.

~~~~

February 19th, 1901

“Where the hell have you been?” William hissed, gesturing wildly for Bill to hurry up and get behind the low wall. They had been preparing to enter the Boer compound when he’d realised that his favourite Corporal was missing and Will’s mind had immediately skipped to the worst possible scenario, that Bill had snuck on ahead and already been killed, before the attack could even begin. And now it seemed he’d been half right; Bill hadn’t gotten himself killed (this time) but he had obviously snuck off somewhere and by the grin on his face it had been somewhere stupidly dangerous. 

“Calm down, Wi-” he watched Bill catch himself and the grin slipped slightly at the near miss before the cheeky confidence returned. “I’m back safe and sound, Lieutenant, sir. I just went scouting.”

“You’re supposed to do as you’re told,” Will hissed, leaning in closer. Even if it seemed like none of the men were actively listening to their conversation they had to be careful. Soldiers gossiped worse than schoolboys and he was having enough trouble maintaining command without Bill skipping in to view and turning him in to a love sick boy, and worrying him out of his mind as well. “I told you to stay at the back. That’s why I agreed to you carrying the dynamite. We go in ahead and subdue the enemy. You hang back and when the fight is over you come in and blow the place so they can’t keep moving back in and using it as a stronghold. The plan was basic, Corporal. What didn’t you understand?”

Bill scowled but looked suitably cowed, at least from a distance. Standing as close as he was, pressed against the crumbling perimeter wall, shoulder to shoulder, Will could see the heat of his gaze and sly curl of his lip, a look designed to bring heat to William’s cheeks and chest. Ever since the night they’d first kissed, when they’d finally given in to the fire between them, and their feelings, Bill had been pushing him, teasing him, making his groin ache at the worst possible moments, as if testing how far he could go before Will snapped and reigned him in. He wanted to hate it but just couldn’t. The thrill of lust and the danger of discovery were a heady mix and only fueled his desire and deep affection for the younger man. He found himself entertaining fantasies of pulling Bill roughly in to his arms and kissing him with passion and abandon, of deserting the army in favour of life as an outlaw with his lover. He never acted upon such desires of course. He had no wish to face a court marshall or criminal charges. Instead he made do with the frustration and saved it up for the nights they were able to spend together. Those times were rare enough and Will was aware that some suspected Bill of sneaking off base more often than he did, when he was missing from his bed, but Will could see no other way. He needed Bill, for better or worse. He couldn’t imagine surviving without him anymore, and he knew that Bill felt the same way about him.

“It’s alright... sir,” Bill whispered, looking up at him searchingly. “I just thought it might be better if... if I placed the charges ahead of time is all. So that if things go pear you could sound a retreat and just blow the bastards. Or I could just blow them now, save us all some trouble.”

Will gaped. He wanted to yell and put the fear of god in to the man before him, looking so quietly confident, to shake some sense in to his beautiful face. But further down the line Sergeant Llewelyn was hissing at one of the men to keep his trap shut and William knew it wouldn’t do for him to contradict the order, or to give away their position by making a scene. Bill noticed his anger anyway and the pout that appeared on his lips made Will want to kiss him and strangle him, a most frustrating pair of desires which only fueled his anger more. 

“That would hardly be the honourable thing, Corporal,” he whispered, shaking with the displeasure he was barely containing. “Not to mention the fact that the Major and his men are positioned on the other side of the compound and we are to await their signal before we attack. This isn’t a one man war, Bill,” he huffed, trying to get it across to the man somehow. “You were supposed to stay back and wait. You have to learn to take orders if we’re going to make it through this alive.”

Bill grunted and folded his arms, an action that sent Will’s eyes darting lest someone notice the insubordination and realised what was between them. A heavy sigh followed the grunt as Bill noticed Will’s distress and adjusted his slouched stance to something more fitting.

“I’m not so good at doing as I’m told, _sir_. But I’m good at what I do, and you’re not the only one who notices things, you know.”

Will blanched, his eyes darting nervously once more. “And what do you mean by that, Corporal?”

“I mean you’ve got to stop this. You’ve got to stop keeping me back from every fire fight,” Bill hissed earnestly. Will saw him raise his hand, saw it waver, desperate to touch him and offer comfort. But after a moment he let it drop, defeated, and Will hated that there had to be such artifice between them, such separation. And he hated the sadness he heard in Bill’s voice when he continued. “Because that’s what you’re doing. You’re holding me back, have been for weeks, months, since that whole incident with the grenade, and I’m guessing it’s to protect me, ‘cos that’s what you do. And I love you for it,” he said the words so softly they were barely audible but they still spiked Will’s fear, and a hardness entered Bill’s voice as he continued. “But if I’ve noticed it, then soon enough Llewelyn and White will too, not to mention the rest of the men. I may not be a good soldier but I am a good fighter; I can keep myself safe. And you need me down there with you, Lieutenant.”

William raised his hands to grab the man’s shoulders but stopped himself just ahead of time, leaving his hands half clawed in the air. He tightened them in to fists instead and lowered them to his sides.

“Why are you so infuriating?”

“Don’t know, sir,” Bill said with a smirk, looking up at him with deeply hooded eyes that held both a challenge and a promise. “Guess I was just made that way.”

Will held back his laugh but could help but smile. “Then which ever god made you should be shot. You’re ridiculous.”

Bill’s smile was short-lived and bittersweet and Will could see that he was holding himself back as his body rocked forward and his own hands clenched just as Will’s had done. 

“See, that’s what I don’t want to happen, sir. Don’t think I’d survive if that god of mine got shot again. It’s why I don’t want to be left behind, sir. Please?”

Will knew the argument was lost. Denying Bill was impossible, though it hurt to do so, to agree to let him put himself in danger. He nodded in defeat but took the gratitude he saw in Bill’s eyes as compensation for his own heartache. He wished there was time to explain properly why he was keeping Bill back from the fighting but they had already spoken too long and the signal from Major White would be coming any minute. He had a job to do and he was just going to need to trust Bill to do his part, to follow orders, and to stay alive. 

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to force the hysteria back down his throat. He wanted to say something, to urge caution, but from across the crumbling compound he heard the shout, the signal to charge, and every man along the line turned to him, awaiting his command. 

“You heard the Major, men! Over we go! For England! For the king! For victory! Charge!”

Bill caught his hand as he leapt over the wall and began to run toward the enemy stronghold and squeezed it tight, grinning wide as if it was a great game they played and he was pleased to be heading in to such a fray. “Stay alive,” he managed to tell him, but there was no time for more. Their hands parted as they reached for their weapons, almost upon the enemy. 

“And you,” Bill called before ducking away, dodging the first of the bullets that were soon showering down upon them. He seemed confident but Will felt nothing of the sort and it was a physical pain in his chest to reset his mind and focus solely on plan and his men. He lifted his pistol, fired, and did his best to put Bill from his mind. Such distractions would get them both killed.

~

As the machine gun fire rattled, sending out shards of wood in all directions, Bill tried to breathe. The wall he was hidden behind wouldn’t last much longer, not at the rate the Boer’s artillery were firing. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and held the rifle to his chest, trying to think of a way out, trying to force the fear down until it no longer existed. He’d asked to be part of the charge, he reminded himself, so he couldn’t exactly complain now that he was in the thick of it.

Of course, no one had been prepared for such a strong defense by the Boer. No one had anticipated machine guns, no one had anticipated an ambush. Major White had told them all, with the utmost confidence, that the aging compound housed the last remnants of the Boer army, and that they were a small and sorry bunch. He’d joked as he’d briefed them, that the enemy would likely surrender within minutes of their attack and beg to be taken prisoner. It didn’t fit with what Bill had seen of the Boer but he was still too far down the pecking order to be allowed to voice his concerns.  Not long ago he would have spoken up anyway, chain of command and rules be damned, but he’d all but given it up, though he hated to admit it. He was rarely listened to anyway and he worried that any act of defiance would come back to bite Will, for being the one to vouch for him and recommend him for promotion. He’d voiced his concerns later of course, to Will, and that very morning to Sergeant Llewelyn, but even they hadn’t seen any real basis for his concerns.

He’d been right, of course, but it wasn’t much of a victory, standing in the wreckage of the Boer compound, surrounded on all sides and being fired at. No one seemed to listen to him, no matter that he was always right. Even the men he’d found himself cornered with had refused to listen, no matter that they were privates and he a corporal. They’d sneered at him in the past but now, in the heat of battle, they’d ignored him and abandoned him entirely. And now they were mostly dead.

Something caught his eye suddenly, and he saw a figure dart out, making for the far end of the building, to the British-held line. It was one of the very men who’d refused to heed him when he told them to take cover, a man he’d been shipped over with, Tom, he thought his name was. But whoever he’d been, he was cut down within seconds by the machine gun and Bill watched, wide eyed, as the man’s body was pierced and jolted about by the bullets, like a puppet having its strings severed, before he fell lifeless to the ground. 

He was trapped, he realised, with no hope of escape. And he had no idea where Will had gone. He’d tried his best to keep the man in his sights when the attack began but it had proved impossible. A wall had collapsed and Will had been forced to run in the opposite direction to find cover and they’d lost each other in the ensuing chaos. If only he could reach one of his charges, Bill thought, looking off to toward the far wall. The Boer troops were tight against the wall he’d primed to blow and he knew he’d be able to take out at least half of them if he could just reach it, but there was no way. No way at all.

He felt the blast before he saw it. Spinning to peer through the splintered wall, even as the earth beneath his feet rose like a wave and the ignited air burst toward him, Bill saw the outer wall explode, taking the men and machine guns with it. For a split second he watched the fire blossom and tear apart flesh, metal, and stone with equal ease before the blast hit him and he was thrown across the room. His head hit the ground but the crack was lost in the roar of the flames and he lay gasping, blinded by the flash, ears ringing louder than they ever had before in the aftermath of one of his explosions, tears trickling down his cheeks without regard for his mind’s inability to process what had happened. 

Rubble had fallen around him, remnants of wooden planks and stone bricks, and the air was too thick to breathe, heavier than the fallen wall that lay over him, trapping him and keeping him from rising. Several minutes passed as he struggled slowly, disorientated, and then a second blast rang out, rumbling through the earth. Bill forced himself up, the world around him a hazy array of shapes and shadows. _Who set off the charges? Who set them off?_ his mind demanded, but Bill could only shake his head dumbly. Only Will knew that the dynamite had been placed ahead of the charge and Will...

He rolled to his side, pushed the rubble away, vomited his meagre breakfast on to the blood-soaked floor, and tried, and failed, to stand. Will had known where the charges were because he’d gone through the positioning of them with Bill the previous night, but who else knew? A third blast sounded, forcing its way through the fog in Bill’s ears and mind, and he cried out. He hadn’t set long fuses on any of them, had figured he’d either have time to do that after the battle or, if it had to happen during the battle, it would need to be quick. He knew how fast to run to stay safe but anyone else... someone like William... 

Bill sobbed but there was no chance to indulge his fear. A hand caught him roughly by the back of his shirt and hauled him upright and he was vaguely aware of the sound of Sergeant Llewelyn cursing and yelling at his men to fall back, to retreat. Bill tried to get his feet under him to run but they wouldn’t seem to obey and bullets were still burning through the air as he was dragged back toward the stone wall and the woodland beyond it.

“Reeves!” he screamed out when he was dumped unceremoniously on the ground beyond sight of the compound, his throat ripping as he screamed for the man he loved. “Will!”

He tried to scramble to his feet but a boot to the shoulder sent him sprawling. All around men were running, yelling, bleeding, but Llewelyn ignored them, kneeling down by Bill’s head, his face a storm of emotion that Bill couldn’t read, his voice a harsh whisper that Bill could barely hear. 

“Now listen lad, I had eyes on you when that first blast went off. I know you didn’t do this. And that first one took out at least half of the damn Boer, so even if it had been you, I’m not complaining. But the second...” He was breathing hard and his eyes were wild, and scared, Bill realised, and he listened with dread when the sergeant continued. “The second hit some of our own, namely Major White. The last I saw he was still alive enough to yell blue murder at the enemy but he’ll be baying for blood soon enough, wanting someone to blame for this. And you know they’ll come for you.”

Bill felt his heart drop. His skin prickled with a sudden wave of cold sweat and he stared up at the Sergeant with a new kind of terror brewing in the cavity of his chest. 

“But I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t do it. It... it wasn’t me this time.”

Llewelyn looked away staring down the tree line to the men retreating toward them. He stiffened at the sight of White being assisted to safety, his eyes narrow and jaw set in anger, but his expression softened marginally when he looked back at Bill, still sprawled on his back on the dirt. 

“I know, boy. As I say, I had sight of you when they went off. And I was there, not an hour ago, when Reeves told the Major that he’d ordered you to ready the explosives early. A dozen people knew there was dynamite planted around that compound.”

“So they can’t-”

“They will,” Llewelyn growled as Bill attempted to sit up. His body felt strange, almost numb, and so he rested back on his elbows as Llewelyn explained. “They’ll find a way to blame you, Mullen. They’ve been looking for something to stitch you up with for months now. They’ll say the charges went off accidentally-”

“But they can’t!” Bill interrupted. “That’s not how they work!”

“They don’t care!” Llewelyn countered. “They do not care, Mullen. D’you hear me?”

“But...” Bill could feel his throat tightening and tears were threatening his eyes again, making them itch and burn, but he shook his head. “But I’ve been trying so hard, Sarge. I’ve been... good.”

The sergeant looked almost heartbroken at those words and his nod was slow when it finally came. 

“You’ve been good, boy. And you’re one of the finest soldiers I’ve known. But without Reeves to protect you, there’s only so much I can do, Mullen. I’ll fight for you, tooth and nail, boy, don’t doubt it. But without Reeves...”

The words hit Bill like another blast, punching through his chest and radiating outward. It was too much, too painful. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t dare.

“What?” he stuttered. He tried to sit up again but his side felt odd - hot and heavy - and he clutched at Llewelyn as he attempted to stand. “What do you mean? What’s happened to Reeves? Sarge, please? What’s happened to Reeves?”

Llewelyn got his arm around Bill’s waist and hefted him up high enough to see above the wall, to the remains of the compound, and Bill tried not to be distracted by the odd, prickling sensation in his side and hip. The dynamite had done its work exactly as he’d hoped, collapsing in the walls and ceiling on three sides and rendering the building entirely useless, but he hadn’t really expected to do it with so many people still inside and the carnage was shocking. But worse by far was the group leaving the compound in the opposite direction to their own forces. 

They were retreating certainly, but there were men, bound, being pulled along behind their horses, men in British uniform.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, looking up at Llewelyn pleadingly, his head swimming and uncertain. “Reeves?”

“They’re taking them as prisoners. God knows why. And I can’t tell if Reeves is among them, not from this distance. But I didn’t see him dead so there’s a chance. But there’s also a chance he is dead, Mullen. We just got our heads dunked in a blood bath. We went in there expecting twenty to forty men, instead we met over two hundred. And machine guns...” he sighed. “But captured or dead, Reeves is gone, lad, and things are going to get bloody difficult for both of us here on out.”

 _Captured or dead. Captured or dead. Captured. Or dead._ The words circled through his mind, making all other thought impossible. His eyes widened until they hurt and he lunged for the wall, desperate to get down to the compound, to search the dead, to catch up with the fleeing Boer and get Will back. He couldn’t go through that grief again. Not now that he knew Will loved him, now that Will was truly in his heart, and he in Will’s. 

The pain hit suddenly as he moved forward and Llewelyn caught him before he hit the ground, easing him down carefully.

“You can’t help him, lad,” he said gently. “You took a hit when that first wall blew. And even if you hadn’t... it’s too late, Mullen. Let’s just get you to triage, sort the rest out later.”

 Bill looked up at the sergeant, and then across to where Major White, injured and pale, was glaring at him with murder in his eyes, and finally down at his side, and the jagged shard of wood jutting out from his skin. 

“It’s only a splinter,” he whispered hoarsely, even as his gorge rose again. “I need to get to William, Sarge. Please?”

But the world span before he could attempt to stand and the light faded around him. 


	13. Chapter 13

January 20th, 1915  
Western Front,  
France

 

Bill shuffled over as Sergeant Evans flopped down to his right on the pile of sand bags they’d come to call ‘the bench’. The man offered him a cigarette but he shook his head dumbly. He didn’t smoke, didn’t trust himself to form the habit, not when he spent so much time around black powder and fuse lines. Evans grunted and lit one for himself anyway and together they sat and stared across at what was left of the mine.

“I’ve been reliably informed that we do not have the necessary skills or manpower for undermining on the scale required,” Evans told him eventually, his voice dripping with sarcasm and fury, despite his exhaustion.

“Well not now,” Bill replied, unable to summon much of any emotion in response as he stared blankly at what yesterday had been a working mine but was now a tomb. “I could’ve told them that, sarge. You could’ve told them that. In fact, if memory serves, you did tell them that. Over a month ago. So what’s changed?”

“A hundred dead men and another collapsed tunnel, I’d say,” Evans sighed, giving the answer Bill had already known. “Not that they seem to give a damn about the actual lives lost. They’re more concerned with losing their advantage. They’ve enlisted a hoard of clay kickers further south along the line with good results and said they had similar plans for here. Some civilian gentleman’s been given the run of our branch of the Engineers and he has big plans apparently. You and I may find ourselves surplus to requirement, Mullen.”

Bill let out a huffed breath, the closest thing to a laugh he could manage, and folded his arms tightly over his chest. “Did you happen to point out that we’re on chalk here, not clay, sarge?” he asked, still staring at the collapsed mine that had claimed the majority of their unit. He’d been a month in France and had spent most of it underground, trying to sure up the tunnels the French miners had started. What explosives he’d been able to lay had been relatively successful but every explosion had forced more space between their front line and the German one, and had made the remaining tunnels more volatile. It had been nasty work and had cost them a great deal.

“I did raise it, yes, Mullen,” Evans huffed. “And turns out they’ve got a plan for that too. They’ll be moving us back a ways and bringing in miners from chalk country to fill out our ranks.”

“Surplus to requirements indeed then,” Bill grinned, looking up at his superior. “Maybe they’ll send us home.”

Evans chuckled around his cigarette, puffing out smoke like an ancient locomotive. “Not really, Mullen. You and me are the only officers with any knowledge of this place, and knowledge of military grade explosives, let alone any knowledge of this war. They’re sending us a bunch of untrained civilians and guess who’s going to be doing the training? They’ll not be sending us home. They don’t send any able-bodied men home. Next best thing though,” he said, reaching in to his coat and bringing forth a pair of envelopes. “I was given these. One for you, one for me. Seems home is missing us just as much as we’re missing them.”

Bill grinned and reached to grab the envelope, recognising Freddie’s handwriting instantly. She’d been the one to teach him to read and write and he knew her style as well as his own. He had been momentarily disappointed when Evans had brought forth the letters and the handwriting he recognised wasn’t Will’s, but knew that a letter was so unlikely as not to be hoped for. He’d been desperate to hear something since the day he arrived but had been assured that when news came it would come through Colonel White, a hope which was looking less and less likely the longer he spent in the dirt and muck.

When he was underground digging he did his best to put the worry from his mind; it was too dangerous in the narrow, dark, tunnels to let himself become distracted, but when he was given leave to sleep his mind was always flooded with thoughts of Will. He found that sleep only ever came when he stretched his mind forth, seeking the heartbeat that matched his own. He still wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination or a real connection, but it gave him a slight measure of peace to feel that Will was still alive, even if the niggling fear remained, that he was wrong, that Will had disappeared without a trace, and he would never know for sure what had become of him.

But as he opened the envelope and removed the contents, he realised that there two different sheets of paper, one a letter from Freddie, and the other written in the very handwriting he had been desperate to see. His heart leapt up in to his throat, stopping his breath as he ran his fingers over the ink of his own name: his name in William’s hand. His breath hitched and he clenched his jaw hard against the overwhelming tide of emotion. He hadn’t been able to cry after the mine had collapsed. He’d wanted to but the tears just hadn’t been there. Yet at the sight of Will’s swooping, curling, scrip the tears sprang forth and he blinked them away desperately. He had seen too much death, had breathed it in to his lungs along with the dust and chalk and smoke, but the sudden hope presented to him was terrifying and he felt his strength crumbling dangerously.

The letter called to him as he gazed at it, a whisper in William’s voice, begging to be read and made a reality, and he wanted to open it, wanted to know, and yet the idea terrified him and he found himself opening the letter from Freddie instead, the letter from Will held tight to his chest, to his heart, as if he feared it might disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second.

~

_To my most dear William,  
My Bill,_

_I write this letter to you with the most fearful heart, with the prime purpose of forwarding the second enclosed letter to you as quickly as possible. It was opened by the war office before it reached me and so I was privy to its contents, however unwillingly. I am so sorry, Bill, but upon reading the letter and realising the truth of Will’s circumstances, I immediately made contact with a friend currently serving abroad with the Red Cross and must relate to you the harsh truth that Wittenberg has been abandoned by its German doctors. The typhus is so rife there, the very thought of it nearly made me weep. Again, Bill, I am so sorry._

_I assume you are reading this having first read Will’s letter and am not offended by your preference dear, I only wish I could have given you better reassurance. As things stand I fear I have only added to your distress. Did you know, when you said goodbye to me and to England, that he had been taken prisoner? I suppose you did. The pair of you have always have an enviable connection._

_I am not sure what else to write of, yet feel it is a terrible crime to leave the page half blank. The estate is running smoothly, thanks to Smithy and the girls you hired. They are a jolly bunch and have rallied help from the village to help me set the place up for the soldiers already overflowing our hospitals. Several nurses have already arrived and are settling in well and our first patients arrive at the end of the week, amputees for the most part, in need of further rehabilitation before they return home. I am actually quite excited, childish as it may seem. I made sure to lock the two rooms belonging to yourself and Will. I must say though, Bill dearest, you have the most ridiculous collection of motors and parts and the gods only know what else, in your room; they covered the entire bed and most of the floor. What on earth do you do with such things?  Actually I should prefer you don’t tell me, like as not it will be gibberish to me, as my medical speak would be to you._

_War, I suppose, is keeping you busy, though I do hope you are staying out of trouble darling._

_Do you recall when you were small and I would be cross at you every time you managed to get yourself in to trouble of one sort or another? It would make me so very angry to know that I couldn’t protect you the way I wished to.  Well I must confess I have not changed my character a jot since then and I still worry for you terribly. I wish I could drag you home and demand that you stay safe and sound and under my eye, and Will, and Charlie too of course, but I am powerless in this adult world and it pains me._

_One of the old women asked what had become of you and I informed her proudly that you were recruited for the Royal Engineers for your notable record and she seemed hugely impressed. You know, I don’t think she liked either you or me before then but now she seems to hold us both in esteem. She keeps showing me a photograph of her son, like she thinks I’ll fall in love with the thing and ask to marry him the moment he returns. But so many of the men don’t return, Bill. And now they say the war will not be won in a hurry, when once they carried on and on with their ‘Home by Christmas’ lines. Please be well and come home in one piece, dear one. It is difficult enough to yell at you with you only having the one ear, how will I tell you soundly off if you come home in a box or not at all?_

_You are all the family I have in the world, Bill. Please don’t do anything rash._

_With all my love,_

_Freddie._

~

Bill stared down at the words, running his thumb over the fold of the other letter, the one addressed to him in Will’s hand, the one he was still too nervous to read. He had thought Freddie’s letter would be better to begin with; he knew he would be unable to concentrate on her words after reading Will’s and had thought it might buoy his spirits before he revealed to himself what had become of his husband, but it had had the opposite effect.   
His mind was a jumble of panicked thoughts and dim fears that he could not contain. For so many weeks he had done his utmost to focus on the job at hand, finding comfort in his conviction that Will was alive, refusing to give in to fear or doubt. And now, with proof in his hands, when he should have felt elated or comforted, he was petrified. He wished he could open the letter in some place more private, where he would be free to give in to any emotions that the letter dragged forth, but there was no such place. There was no privacy in the trenches.

A glance over at Evans reassured him that the man was engrossed in his own letter at least, and so with shaking fingers he unfolded the weathered sheet of paper, noting how the usually elegant handwriting was uneven and oddly formed, as if Will’s hands had been shaking just as much as Bill’s were when he’d sat down to write. Freddie seemed to think he was gravely ill and it was hard not to see the change in Will’s writing as proof that he was not himself. Still, he told himself, there was no point in imagining every possible horror when the truth was right before him. Chewing on his lip, Bill began to read....

~

_To Corporal Bill Mullen, my dear friend, and most trusted manager of my estate,_

_How to begin? It is always a difficult thing, isn’t it? Made all the more so for having ones words read as they are being written, by one’s captors no less. How does one begin under such pressure? And how does one proceed once the opening pleasantries are done? It is a challenge but one I must face and I hope you shall forgive the stilted nature of my correspondence for, as you know, I am not a lover of letter writing, even under the best of conditions, and these are far from the best._

_I write hoping that this letter finds you well, at home and keeping busy running the estate in my absence. I hope such things for you because I find myself in quite the opposite situation. I find myself in a prison, you see, known as Wittenberg, as miserable a place as any that exists on this earth. I am sure that my captors will remove my location from this letter if they feel it is necessary to do so but since they seem determined to know your location I shall tell you mine._

_It is quite an experience, witnessing the war from the other side of No Man’s Land. It is not nearly so pleasant. I have been unwell since coming here, and the lice that seem to run this place have taken a particular fancy to my skin. They have bitten me raw and my skin is quite covered in sores._

_I have been today assured, however, that such conditions as I have been living under are over, for me at least, at least as long as I cooperate. I am thankful for that because I am not fond of the symptoms I have been exhibiting - fever, chills, vomiting, headaches - nor have I been fond of the smell of the barracks here, filled as it is with other men in the same situation as myself. It has been unpleasant. I do not like to see my countrymen suffer so but, alas, it seems our enemy are not as gracious, nor as prepared as we were. We are, as ever, their superiors._

_Apologies if this letter is melancholy in tone. I am most happy to be dressed today in clean clothes and have enjoyed a bowl of soup, as well as bread. A feast after so long without sufficient rations. Another failing of my captors. It seems I overestimated their social civility and organisational skills. I am grateful, however, to finally be in a room with a fire going and was only today thinking back to the days when I would marvel at your delight in fire and such. Now I think I understand it a little better._

_I am afraid that I must leave off writing now, for my stomach has begun to cramp once more and my eyes are refusing to focus on the paper. I do hope that you are getting along well at home. You did say in your last letter to me how our agriculture and industry are both thriving and it is so heartening to read such news, to know that our nation is still excelling, both at home and here on the battlefield. I imagine you have been busy, for there always seems so much to do around the place, even in the winter, and you know I trust your judgement entirely in the running of the estate._

_The winter seems to have gone on for so long already I had quite forgot that the Christmas season was upon us and must wish you a most merry mid-winter, Bill, for I know you dislike the cold and shall be looking forward to Spring. This cold almost makes me miss the heat of the Cape. Almost. Despite the cold here there are too many similarities between then and now, though at least here I have not suffered from sunburn._

_I do hope you are well, Bill. I look forward to returning home and expect that to be sooner rather than later, as our military might pushes forward a pace. I hope to be home by summer. I think often of our midsummer celebrations and how care-free and happy we were and feel we must have another such party when I do return. Such memories as those give me the strength I need to carry on here, and to fight on._

_Your friend,_

_Captain William Reeves._

~

Bill folded the letter carefully, then Freddie’s letter around it, before closing his eyes and leaning back against the rough chalk of the trench wall, his lips curling upwards in a bittersweet smile. Will was alive, which was an incredibly good thing to have confirmed, and had apparently not yet lost his sense of humour, nor his tendency toward the droll and sarcastic. Bill had no doubt that a good portion of that letter had been designed to annoy whoever was reading over his shoulder, and to thwart any attempts to gain knowledge from his correspondence and that was surely a good sign.

Yet at the same time, Bill felt as if he was grieving, as if Will’s words were the writings of a ghost, long dead and desperate to communicate with the living. The melancholy had been plain in his writing, and it seemed to have required a great deal of effort to write at all. Will is alive, he reminded himself. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive. He was feverish, weak with hunger, bitten by bugs and, according to Freddie, probably suffering from typhus, but he was alive, and Bill finally knew where he was. All of this was reason to hope, and Bill refused to give in to the despair that had of late been crouching in the corners of his mind.

“Sarge?” He asked, eyes still shut tight against the harsh, grey winter light. “This may seem an odd request but I need to get in touch with a colonel attached to Military Intelligence. A man by the name of White. How would I go about doing that, d’you think?” 

When no reply came he opened one eye and bit back a laugh at the look Evans was giving him. The man had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, stuck to the dry skin of his bottom lip so that it dangled like it was defying gravity, and his thick eyebrows had risen up to meet his hairline, forcing his eyes wider than Bill had ever seen them before. He looked stunned and Bill didn’t doubt that he was.

“Why in hell would you want to do something like that, Corporal?” he eventually asked in disbelief, and Bill lifted the tightly folded letters up to give a mock salute by way of explanation. 

“Because I’ve just received a letter from one of their operatives, and I think he’ll want to know about it.”

The sergeant didn’t waste time and was on his feet and pulling Bill up after him in moments, the cigarette flicked in to the closest puddle where it hissed pathetically for a moment before sinking. They made their way quickly back through the warren of trenches, staying as low as they could to avoid detection in the daylight hours, and Bill was relieved that Evans was at least not asking him about his letter from Freddie. He seemed to be fascinated by the idea that Bill even knew such a woman, all the more so after Bill had relented and told him of their youth together and how he had been unofficially adopted by the rich daughter of the huge Australian estate, a half-Aboriginal, half-British bastard child of no worth until Freddie had decided he was under her protection. But even if his curiosity about Freddie had momentarily dimmed. Evans’ interest in the other letter, and their current mission, was well and truly piqued.

“How the hell did a letter from an MI get caught up in your mail, Mullen?” he muttered once they were clear of the front lines and winding through the reserve trenches. “Was it just jammed in your love letter? Or are you spying now, on the side? I knew there was more to you than meets the eye, man, but I didn’t think it was that. Not much use being a spy when we spend sixteen hours a day underground. What d’you spy on, the chalk dust? Or me? ‘Cos I have to tell you, Corporal, reports about me digging my life away’ve got to be the most boring thing I can imagine, and I just read two whole pages about the new dress my wife’s been sewing for our eldest. And another page about the joys of teething twins.”

Despite the gruff nature of the words Bill could tell how pleased the sergeant was with his wife’s letter, and so asked him pointedly about it until they reached the Communications dugout and he was able to explain to the captain there of his need to reach Colonel White.  
The captain didn’t look at all convinced, sneering down at Bill as if he smelt somehow worse than the rest of the soldiers and trench combined, but Bill stood his ground. He wasn’t about to be put off by some chinless man with no sense in his head.

“I wasn’t aware we had any... Australians posted here,” he said with a curl of his lip as he looked Bill over and apparently found him wanting. “Are you quite certain you passed the physical for service? Besides which, I have no instructions with regards to Military Intelligence. Explain yourself, Corporal, before I dismiss you this moment.”

Bill bit back on the sigh he wanted to heave, and his climbing emotions, and gave the man the kind of salute that used to make Will blush back in the early days. Back then he wouldn’t have hesitated in telling the man exactly what he thought. He slightly hated that he’d learnt how to pander to officers, but he couldn’t afford to waste time in this, not when Will’s safety and his life hung in the balance, and the sharp salute seemed to do the trick.

“Sir, yes sir. My understanding with Colonel White was part of my re-enlistment, sir,” he said simply. “He and I are long aquainted. The Colonel came to me personally, knowing that this series of events might occur, and told me I was to contact him in such an eventuality. I’m afraid I can’t say much else about it, sir, if you understand me, as I’m only a corporal and don’t have clearance to pass on the details to others, even those of higher rank.”

It was an effort to keep his face serious as he spoke, for he couldn’t help but imagine how impressed Will would be at such ridiculous jargon. The officer before him certainly seemed impressed and Evans was staring at him like he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. Sometimes, Bill had learnt, it actually paid to have people underestimate him. It made for an amusing moment when they realised there was more to him than just a clueless Australian.

A minute later the captain had sent a carefully encoded message to Colonel White, requesting his presence at their location to assess a letter from one of his undercover operatives, one Captain Reeves, who was reportedly being held at Wittenberg Prison. Bill really wanted to just set forth to find White in person, to wave the letter in his face and demand that he do something to get Will to safety and a doctor, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen so thanked the captain politely instead and waited to be dismissed. Instead the man left him where he was and turned stiffly to address Evans instead.

“After you left us this morning, Sergeant, I received further information about your new posting. Apparently you and what is left of your unit will be moving today. You’ll be further back from the shelling, which I’m sure you’ll appreciate, but it means that any leave you might have been coming up for will have to be postponed. You’re going to a site known as the Glory-Hole. Have you heard of it?” The way he said it, like he was speaking of something cursed, made Bill strangely uncomfortable, and Evans stiffened, his dark brows coming down to form a heavy V above his eyes. “I see you have,” the captain nodded. “They are digging deeper there. Much deeper, I’m told. The new recruits will be there tomorrow but command want you there ahead of them. Some of the shafts there are very, shall we say... tight? There have been collapses that need to be cleared, especially around a new well they’ve been dropping. Apparently you have a man who may be small enough to get in there and shore up what’s left.”

Bill couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at that, and Evans’ grin was equally broad when he answered. “That man would be Mullen here, sir,” he said, the humour creeping in to his voice. “There’s none smaller and none I’d trust better in a tunnel. If anyone can survive the Glory-Hole and shore up this well, it’s him.”

Bill half expected the man to throw a tantrum given his earlier attitude but instead, behind the layers of surprise and embarrassment, he looked resigned, as if there was very little left that could shock him for long. He turned to face Bill, the sneer gone, but the distaste still evident.

“Corporal Mullen,” he said politely, clearly filtering out what he wished to say in order to remain professional and aloof. “Something tells me you are going to be somewhat of a thorn in my side. Would you agree with such an assessment?”

Bill grinned, suddenly feeling more himself than he had since the outbreak of the whole damned war. “If it’s any consolation, sir, you’re not the first to say that.”

~~~~

**To: Cpl. Mullen  
Looked in to claim. Operative’s presence recorded at Wittenberg on Dec 25. No record of arrival. No record of current whereabouts. Contact made with Asphodel Meadows and Dr. Lester. You are to write to Operative as if still at A.M. and send via the doctor. She has instructions to forward letter to our London office. Letter will be sent to Wittenberg via Red Cross. They shall track the letter to find Operative. Further information to be sent your way when known. Good work.  
Col. White. M.I.**

~~~~

_My dearest Will,_

_It is good to hear from you, even if your circumstances are not the best. It is good to know you are alive and I would consider it a great favour if you would continue to let me know regularly of your continued survival._

_Life at Meadows is just as you imagined, though Christmas and winter solstice were a quiet affair._

_Life being the odd creature that it is, I find myself digging a well at the moment. It is very deep but I must go a little further, I think. It is a very good thing that I am not a large man, for I’ve had to climb down a long way and the space is not generous. There is great satisfaction, actually, in digging and shifting rocks, but at the same time it is all rather reminiscent of my old work back in the Transvaal. I find myself overcome by claustrophobia from time to time._

_I would like you to know, dearest, my dear friend, that I am working toward the same ends as I did then, in a way._

_I cannot bear the thought of you locked away and in such poor health. Freddie tells me it is probably typhus, which is very serious, but I have told her that you don’t die so easily, and that even if your skin is completely covered in spots and sores it has seen worse and shall overcome even this as well._

_You are very much missed, Will, and we look forward to your coming home soon, as soon as this war is put to bed. We are all confident here that such a day is not too far off._

_Please write again as soon as you’re able, we are all of us desperate to know that you are still alive and that you are recovering well._

_Your servant, always,_

_Bill Mullen._


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of: injury, racism, sunburn, blood mention, bruising, anxiety, dead animal

February 20th 1901  
Cape Colony,  
South Africa 

Missing in action. 

Bill sat down hard on the floor as his brain attempted, and failed, to process those words. He let his head fall back against the metal frame of the hospital bed, winced at the pain, then repeated the action several times for good measure. It hurt well enough but nothing could touch the agony that was shredding his heart. Missing in action. Will was missing in action.

“Come on now, boy,” Llewelyn whispered gently, getting his hands under Bill’s shoulders to pull him back on to the bed. “None of that. You can’t do that, lad.”

The sergeant was careful but Bill still cried out as the stitches in his side pulled and a nurse hurried over to assist, tutting as she rearranged the sheet around him and glared at the sergeant all the while. 

“My apologies,” Llewelyn muttered, but the woman only made another disapproving noise in her throat and went back to her patient, the man in the bed beside Bill’s, the final survivor of the compound to be brought back, the reason for Bill’s distress. He turned back to Llewelyn, his mind overflowing with questions, desperate for answers, but found he couldn’t actually look the man in the eye, and so focused on the now unconscious soldier in the bed beside him. 

“He said they spared him because he wasn’t an officer.” It wasn’t a question, just a repeating of the facts as the man had said them, but Llewelyn nodded all the same.

“Spared him, or left him in the rubble to die,” he shrugged, his voice rough and low. “But it seemed to be clear enough that they left him because he wasn’t an officer. They only wanted prisoners of rank.”

“But why, sarge?”

Llewelyn sat on the end of the bed with a sigh and scrubbed his face with his large, weathered hands. Bill had never seen him so tired and bit his lip in anticipation of a dressing down when the sergeant turned to look at him with bloodshot eyes. But it didn’t come.

“My guess is they wanted men who they could... extract information from.” He swallowed, and Bill watched the man’s adam’s apple bob, trying to understand the meaning behind the words. “We’re actually winning here, Mullen,” he continued. “And a losing side, when they realise they’re losing... sometimes they get desperate. My guess is they want officers in order to get the heads up on where we plan to hit next.”

“So... Reeves... Lieutenant Reeves...” Bill said softly. He wanted to ask, to know for sure, one way or another, but his throat clenched tight around the words and he was left gasping futilely, tears threatening his eyes once again, even though he felt he had shed more than he could bare over the last day, until the sergeant finally took pity on him and found his own voice.

“The lieutenant’s body wasn’t at the compound, Mullen. I searched that place top to bottom. I can only conclude that he, along with three other officers I couldn’t find, were the men we saw being taken by the enemy. Nothing’s official though, not until I report to White and the rest of his cronies.”

“But we have to go after them, sarge!” Bill exclaimed, gasping at the pain that stabbed through his hip when he tried to sit forward. “We can’t let them get any further away. We’ll never track them if that happens. We have to get them back. You don’t understand! I need to-”

“Now stop,” Llewelyn snapped. He turned to glare at the nurses who had stopped their work to stare at the argument and waited until they had moved out of ear shot before he spoke again. “Trust me, Mullen, I do understand. I know how much your Lieutenant means to you. Who the hell do you think’s been covering for you the last six months? I know, Mullen. But you can’t let any of that show. You can’t, lad. You’ll be hanged or shot before you see him again, don’t think they’ll hesitate, boy, they won’t. So whatever you’re feeling? Keep it to yourself. Keep it in your heart. Keep it hidden. White wants to see you at sun-up and we’re gonna have enough of a battle ahead of us without him accusing you of the crime of love as well, lad. Trust me on that.”

Bill bit back the comment he’d been about to make, the denial, and looked at his sergeant more closely. 

“Understood, sarge.” He went to speak again but paused, unsure how far he could push the man. Llewelyn knew his secret, but instead of handing him over to White, and Will along with him, he’d kept his silence, and had even revealed something of his own soul to Bill. “But after White’s done with me, sarge... when it’s proved that I didn’t set off those charges early...”

“If it’s proved, Mullen. If,” the sergeant stressed, looking at him seriously. “If we can prove that it wasn’t you... then you can do what you damn well need to and I’ll give you my blessing.”

“Thanks, sarge,” Bill said sheepishly, trying to get comfortable as the stitches in his side continued to pull and twinge. The nurses kept telling him to take it easy. Every time they stitched him up he was treated to the same lecture about infection, but he’d never been good at following directions and couldn’t wait to get out of the bed, even if it meant facing White and his selection of lieutenants and captains and their hateful glares.

“Don’t thank me yet, Mullen,” Llewelyn muttered. “They’re mad as hell at me at present as well, for telling them you didn’t do it. We could both end up in those cells if we’re not careful.”

“I can be careful,” Bill shrugged with a wan smile but Llewelyn raised his eyebrow drolly in response.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he groused but Bill caught the twitch of his lips and couldn’t help but feel heartened by it. 

They’d get through the hearing, Bill told himself, and then he’d go and get Will. First of course, he had to get himself out out of the hospital and away from keen eyed, nosey nurses.

~~~~

Two days later, sat on the end of a cot back in the barracks’ hospital, Bill did his best to ignore the tears of frustration forming behind his eyes, and nurse as she pressed the cold compress to his nose. It stung horribly but he couldn’t make himself care about it, or the other bruises that were blossoming on his skin. White had finally conceded that any number of men might have been responsible for the early detonations of the explosives and that he himself may have sent men to the outer walls to ‘guard’ the charges, and that possibly his orders had been misconstrued.

Bill had been elated, especially when Sergeant Llewelyn had brought up the issue of the missing officers, and the possibility of a rescue, but White had dismissed the idea out of hand, and had dismissed Bill as well, refusing to let him stay and plead his case. Llewelyn had ushered him quickly from the room before he was brought up on fresh insubordination charges, but had promised to argue on, and to find Bill as soon as he was done, to figure out what they needed to do next. Caution, Llewelyn had urged as he’d pushed Bill from the room. They needed to take their time and gather their wits before deciding what to do. Bill had agreed, now he wished he’d just run straight out of the barracks as fast as he could go.

He hadn’t been concentrating on his path as he left White’s office, or his surroundings, his mind had been too full of thoughts of Will to focus on anything else. He was desperate to know what had become of him, where he was being kept, whether he was badly injured. He tried to imagine him, his William, not injured in some unknown prison, but the way he loved him best, smiling in that quiet way, as if he couldn’t bear to have the world see him happy, but would make an exception for Bill; or lying against the sheets of his narrow bunk, flushed and panting, eyelashes fluttering, trying to stay quiet lest they be overheard. His William. Bill tried to remember the feel of his skin and the feel of his heart, desperate for some comfort, no matter how small.

He’d wondered whether, if he stilled his mind enough and concentrated, he’d be feel Will’s heartbeat and know he was still alive. His grandmother had believed in that sort of thing but Bill wasn’t so sure. He was so preoccupied that when he looked up to find himself surrounded on all sides by members of the British regiment it had taken him a long moment to realise what was going on. They hadn’t taunted, hadn’t raised any grievances, one man had sneeringly told him, “There’s no lieutenant to save you now,” before he threw the first punch, but nothing more had been said and even that had been unnecessary. Bill knew men like the ones bearing down on him, and his very existence was enough of an affront to warrant a beating in their minds. 

He hadn’t bothered to fight back. There had been too many of them and he hadn’t had the heart to try. Instead he’d simply let it happen. And when he’d fallen to the ground and curled himself in to a ball the soldiers had given up the game soon enough. Bill had considered leaving at that moment but the dampness of his shirt against his hip suggested that his stitches had ruptured and he knew he wouldn’t get far if the wound started to turn. The nurse on duty had pestered him for information when he’d turned up at the infirmary but Bill hadn’t been able to tell her anything, hadn’t trusted himself to open his mouth in case he found himself crying again. When Llewelyn arrived, summoned by one of the overbearing nurses, he was too exhausted to do anything but stare at the floor and wait for the dressing down to begin.

“What the hell happened, Mullen?” the sergeant asked when he was barely in the room, without any apparent concern for the fact that he was yelling loud enough for every man and woman on the ward to hear. “I leave you alone for five bloody minutes and you get in to a fight? A brawl? You bloody kidding me, boy? You’re a corporal, Mullen, you don’t get in to fights, you break them up! I’ve been groveling to the major, trying to get this godforsaken rescue happening - to rescue your bloody lieutenant,” he hissed that particular point before raising his voice once more, “and you’ve been ruining our chances by getting in to a scrap! So tell me, Corporal, what the hell just happened?”

The nurse who’d been tending to his swollen nose had scurried away during the angry diatribe and Bill lowered the compress in order to look at the sergeant properly, feeling a petty moment of triumph when Llewelyn flinched at the sight of his swollen nose.

“I didn’t start a fight, sarge,” he whispered. “And they didn’t give me a reason. I think they’ve just... wanted to do this for a while.”

“You’re a corporal, Mullen,” Llewelyn said more quietly, confusion creeping in to his tone as he sat on the empty bed opposite. “You should’ve stopped them, yelled them down. You can call the lot of them up on serious charges for this. How did it happen?”

Bill gave in to the tears then - tears of shame, for being such a disappointment, for being so alone. He hadn’t asked for the promotion and had worked so hard to make Reeves and Llewelyn proud. He wanted to explain properly, to make Llewelyn see that he hadn’t meant for it to happen and hadn’t known how to stop it, how the men who’d beaten him hadn’t cared that he outranked them, but the words wouldn’t come, and the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Ain’t you ever seen a black kid getting beat, sarge?” he sobbed brokenly, when he had breath enough to speak. “It’s hardly uncommon, is it? They said without Reeves... Without him around to...” he looked up, seeing the shock and anger growing in the sergeant’s eyes. “I need to find Reeves, sarge. I need to go now. You said you’d help.”

“That I did, lad,” Llewelyn answered, shocked. “I’ll get what you need, just make sure you’re patched up and ready to go by sundown. And you best believe I’ll find the men who did this. You’re a good soldier, Mullen. You’re a good man. You didn’t deserve this.”

~

Bill replayed those words over and over in his mind as he trekked out to the destroyed compound. It had taken the battalion five hours to reach the site but Bill could move quicker on his own and reached the outer wall before the moon was fully risen. Llewelyn had warned him that there were was too much rubble, and too many crossed footprints, and that there was every chance Bill wouldn’t be able to find the Boer’s trail. If that was the case, the sergeant had told him as he wrapped sticks of dynamite for Bill to take, he was to turn around and come back. They would find some other way to track down Reeves and the other missing officers, Llewelyn insisted. If Bill did happen to find a path he could track Llewelyn promised to cover for him as long as he could but they were both aware that Bill would face some serious consequences if and when he returned. 

Bill took his time walking through the rubble, skirting around the remains of Boer soldiers who had been left behind, and the expanses of dried blood. In his normal day-to-day life he often struggled to focus his mind, unless there was a flame or a fuse involved, but tracking took a special kind of concentration that he’d learned at very early age. He’d seen Will do something similar when he was surveying a battlefield or map - it was a different kind of focus, a different way of seeing the situation and he looked out across site of the battle as he tried to gather his concentration. He stopped beside what was left of a brick wall and closed his eyes, breathing steadily to clear his mind of the pain and worry that had kept him going thus far and thought back to what he’d seen the day of the ambush. The Boer had retreated to the east. They’d had at least four horses with them, and four prisoners. He couldn’t recall seeing wagons or vehicles or large artillery, which limited the tracks he’d be able to search for and follow, but there had been something. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as he tried to remember. They’d been moving fast, the British prisoners had been stumbling, and one of the horses... had been limping. 

Suddenly buzzing, Bill walked with care toward the edge of the compound. There were dozens of hoof prints in the dirt, going in all directions, and they were faint. The whole place was a mess of scuff marks and blood and rocks, all of which obscured the markers he needed, but as Bill circled out wider he finally saw what he’d been looking for. The marks left by the lame horse had cut deeper than the others, creating a distinctive pattern, and he would be able to follow them, even by moonlight. He laughed giddily as he knelt by the first of the prints, running his fingers along the indentation to commit it to memory by touch as well as sight, then drove a wooden stake in to the ground beside it and tied a scrap of black cloth to it tightly. Llewelyn had insisted he leave markers, and he did so quickly, then scratched an arrow in the dirt to show the direction he’d be taking and set off, eyes fixed on the dark ground for any further marks. It would be slow going, especially at night, but it was safer by far; he couldn’t afford to lose time with sleep.

By dawn he figured he’d made good time but kept moving along the uneven plain until he came to a scrubby patch of trees and rocks that was dense enough to hide him from anyone passing by. The remains of a fire and the trampled undergrowth were sure signs that the Boer had used the same spot only days before, and he tried to be reassured by that knowledge. Not that it gave him leave to ease up on his search. The Boer had a head start of several days, and any delay would make following their trail more difficult. He couldn’t afford for this to come to nothing. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of food and drank sparingly, there was no knowing whether he’d be able to get more or how far he had to travel. There were too many unknowns and all Bill knew for certain was that he needed to get to Will, and that he needed to get him free.

Sleep, however, proved impossible, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, and eventually Bill pulled himself back on to his feet and back out in to the summer sun. He tied another scrap of black cloth around one of the odd, overgrown bushes that seemed to grow better than anything else in the rocky earth, and used his knife to carve an arrow in to the bark of a stunted palm tree, then double checked the hoof marks in the hard dirt. He couldn’t afford to lose the tracks and end up lost in the wilds of South Africa. He’d be left for dead and branded a traitor and then there would be no more William, no more love, no home in England, nothing to look forward to but a lonely death. 

With that in mind Bill set out again and soon settled in to a rhythm as he walked. It wasn’t quite a march, nothing Llewelyn would be proud to see, but was a steady pace nevertheless. He couldn’t manage to keep track of the hours as he went but he kept a watchful eye on the sun as it moved overhead, and tried to stay alert to any signs of life on the blustery plain. Several times he was forced to stop, his heart rate increasing fearfully as he looked around for signs that he was still following the faint path left by the Boer, and more than once he retraced his steps, cursing under his breath as the sun beat down against his neck mercilessly, until he found footprints, the signs of movement, and the distinctive tracks of the horse again and reset his path. He noted once a spot where it seemed a man had fallen - the dirt was scuffed, the stones scattered, and there was a clear handprint in the earth, outlined in blood and sweat. It was a long, narrow hand and Bill placed his own palm over it and sent his thoughts out to the owner of those delicate, strong fingers, a message to their spirit that he was coming, that he would find them. It had filled him with dread but he hadn’t thought to stop. He trudged on.

At one point Bill became aware that he was being watched and he turned slowly toward a stand of trees, and the three sets of eyes watching him from a safe distance. They were the true and rightful owners of the land, he guessed, and his heart went out to them, for he understood the pain and the wariness he saw in their eyes, at the way they were forced to hide in their own land. He didn’t try to approach as they stared at him in disbelief. He could well imagine how he must look, so strange and out of place in the uniform of the white man, but he couldn’t take time to dwell on it, or his silent audience, and when the tracks turned northward they gave up following, and he was relieved to be properly alone once more.

It was far too hot, he decided as he walked steadily onward, and he hated to think what the sun would be doing to Will’s skin. He doubted the Boer cared much about keeping their prisoners hydrated and out of the sun, and as the sweat began to sting the various cuts and grazes that covered his body he used it as a distraction from his mounting worry. Bloody heat, he thought ruefully. Bloody sun. He remembered the way Will had blushed redder than any sunburn the first time he’d heard Bill curse at the sun but Will had joined him in his dawn insults soon enough, and within a few days had taken to it like he’d been swearing all his life. It almost made him smile to think it, the way Will talked about the heat as if it had done him a personal insult. He considered Bill’s language coarse and always called him out for it, yet felt no qualm about swearing when the heat became too much. Not that Bill intended to argue that particular point with him. Will lying on his back, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, swearing like an Australian, was one of his absolute favourite things and he clung to those pleasant memories as hard as he could as he walked steadily onward, scouring the dirt for signs that the Boer had changed their path.

Bill wondered how far the Boer intended to go, whether they’d had time to gather resources and water, and whether they understood how dangerous it was to head out in to this sort of country without proper planning. He was lucky that Llewelyn had insisted on helping him pack or he’d have had no chance. The Cape was surprisingly similar to home, though to his mind it was much too windy and not near as pretty, but it had that same tension to it, that whispering something that said if you forgot to respect this land it would drain the life from you and leave you for dead without a backwards thought. The distant hills were dark and watchful and as he walked Bill began to wonder what stories might be told about them, and what gods might live within their depths. It wasn’t a land that white men were built to handle, no matter what they claimed and boasted, and he couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just be happy with their own shores and the land they’d been birthed to. His William at least had some sense in his head about such things, and seemed to be gaining more the longer Bill knew him. Will couldn’t wait to be home, back where the weather was civilized, he said, even if the society wasn’t. He wanted to show Bill snow, he said, because he thought it would be wonderful, to witness Bill’s face the first time he saw it. It made him wonder how often Will studied him without his being aware of it, a thought that set his heart fluttering. It was an odd thing, being so well known. He hadn’t had much experience of it beyond his sister and grandmother, and had been separated from them for too many years to easily recognise such feelings of affection. 

Shaking his head to clear away such memories, Bill brought his mind back to Will. He needed to keep his mind in the present, rather than let it go wandering after ghosts. He needed to think only of William and pleasant things, but it was a difficult task. Bill had occasionally threatened to take Will home to Australia when the war ended, so that he could experience a real summer, but knew that he never would. Will wouldn’t last a week in that heat, and that was before he even factored in the humidity. The man would never forgive him for something like that, love or no, and Bill had no desire to sabotage their relationship in such as way. And, he reminded himself, he had no real desire to take Will to Australia in any case, even if admitting so caused an ache in his heart. Bill wanted to go back with Will, to see his homeland and start a new life with him. But it did still make him smile to think what William’s outrage would be if faced with an Australian summer. He’d likely swear so blue he managed to offend even the hardest of locals. 

“Bloody sun,” he chuckled to himself as the shadows began to lengthen and the sun bit hard against the back of his neck, but his laughter was cut short by an unexpected, foul stench, and he looked up to see a dark shape on the horizon. He ran toward it, filled with a panic made worse by his growing exhaustion, knowing that such a smell could mean only one thing. “No, please, no!”

Vultures scattered angrily when he reached the corpse but Bill’s relieved, slightly hysterical, laughter kept them well away. The corpse was that of a horse, not a man, but what solace there was didn’t last long, and Bill fell to his knees, trying not to give in to the fatigue and frustration. He’d been following the distinctive hoof prints of the limping horse for the last twenty or so hours, few other marks showed up consistently in the harsh soil, and now he had no way of knowing exactly where Will had been taken. A second wave of panic rushed through his veins at the thought that the horse had possibly been abandoned much earlier and that he had been following the creature as it wandered aimlessly. He scrambled around desperately to grab the creature’s head, not caring any more about the smell or the blood, and could barely breathe when he saw the bullet in the centre of its skull. 

Hot tears began to fall then and Bill couldn’t stop them. The horse had been shot by its owners, showing that they had most definitely come that way, and not too long ago. Now Bill just had to decide which way to go next. He stood but a wave of dizziness hit him hard and he stumbled to the side before falling to his knees hard among the stones. He needed to sleep, he realised, whether he wanted to or not, so tied a strip of cloth around the dead horse’s leg and walked carefully to the nearest tree. It would be better to travel through the night, he knew, but his body would no longer allow him to remain upright. A few hours, he told himself. He would rest for a few hours and then come up with a new plan. He just had to hope that Reeves would be well until he could find him.

~~~~

Will sat carefully in the dirt, using what was left of his strength to stay upright. The skin of his face, neck, and hands hurt more than he had ever thought possible and his lips were so dry that any attempt to speak or move his mouth caused them to bleed. He hadn’t been told why he’d been taken and had been forbidden from speaking with the other officers that had been shackled and led away from the burning compound at gunpoint. He’d tried to argue, had tried to speak out, but his captors had been brutal, as the swelling around his eye could attest, and after three days of being forced to march through the heat and being denied food and water, he had been ready to comply. 

He had no idea what had become of the other men; they had entered the walled garrison a few hours past dawn and he had been pushed in to a small tent upon arrival, left alone with only a guard at the entrance for company. From what he’d seen of his surroundings he would guess that there were a large number of British prisoners being kept in the long tents. The walls that surrounded the tents at one end of the yard and the wood frame buildings of the Boer at the other were high and thick and there were enough armed men wandering the perimeter to convince Will that he wasn’t going to be escaping any time soon. He was a prisoner, he realised, and at the mercy of his enemy. 

He tried to reason out why he’d been dragged from the rubble of the burning compound and taken to such an out-of-the-way place but every idea seemed too unlikely. He had no worth, not really, but they seemed to think they could use him for something. He would simply have to wait and see, and hope that whatever his captors wanted was something he was at liberty to give.

As if on cue a man entered, striding in to the tent with such self-importance that William felt sure he was a veldkornet, the Boer commando’s equivalent of a Colonel, even though he wore no uniform or insignia. Most of the Boer didn’t wear anything to identify themselves, save the weapons, but Will fancied he could spot a ‘big brass’ when he saw one, as Bill would say. Not that there was anything brass or shining about the man leering down at him. The only way Will could really think to describe the man was dusty. He was dressed in shades of brown; hid his face behind a dust-covered hat and bushy moustache, though what Will could see of his skin was the ruddy tan of a man who had spent his days under the sun; and his boots, which he planted inches away from Will’s sunburnt and peeling fingers, were caked in dried mud and more dust. 

“Good-day, Lieutenant,” the man said in a thick accent, the words made even more difficult to understand thanks to his ridiculous facial hair, and Will was filled with an urge to remove his own moustache simply so they would have one less thing in common. “I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, only the other officers each took a very long time to give me the information I was requesting. I should have come to your good self first it seems, but no matter. We shall push on.”

“I fear I have nothing to give you.” Will tried to sound confident but it was a difficult thing when his throat was so dry. 

The veldkornet sniffed and threw a canteen of water at his feet, and watched with a smirk as Will grabbed it up and struggled with the lid, his shackles clanking around his chafed wrists. The man didn’t speak again until Will had swallowed half of the water in the canteen, though it was not for kindness. When Will stopped for breath the man knelt down and swiped the container from his hands, drinking the rest himself and grinning at him ruthlessly. 

“You have much to give me, Lieutenant,” he said confidently. “You see, I have asked the other men for information concerning the attacks on our railway teams, and they all told me, with very strong conviction - eventually - that the counter-attacks were not of their doing, but yours. I laughed when the first said it because you, little Lieutenant, are a boy, but they all said the same thing. They also all had much to tell me of the future movements of your army, Lieutenant, they were quite forthcoming in fact, and have been rewarded with food and water and shelter, as shall you be if you give me the information I am needing. And the information I am needing, from you, is how you and your men have gained the knowledge of our whereabouts and our explosives and how to counter them. I cannot believe that a boy such as you could manage such things, but what I do believe is that there is a spy or turncoat in our ranks who has been feeding you this information, and I wish to be given his name, Lieutenant, to make an example of him, you understand?”

Will stared at the man in confusion as he processed the information. The Boer, it seemed, were so confident in their tactics that they could not imagine that a member of the British forces had found a way to trace and deactivate their devices, and track their hide-outs. He tried to laugh at the ludicrous nature of the situation, but his throat was still too raw to allow it. He cleared it roughly instead and stared the man directly in his pale eyes as he spoke, hoping the veldkornet would see he was telling the truth.

“There is no such man, sir. We have no need for Boer traitors. It is true that I have been among those responsible to dismantling your guerrilla units, and the bombs they have attempted to hide on British tracks. But it hasn’t been through any Boer assistance. I have in my unit a very adept tracker,” he smiled, unable to hide his pride at Bill’s skill and the knowledge that the man’s actions over the last year had caused genuine harm to the enemy and helped to shift the tide of the war. “You cannot hide your explosives or your tracks from him, he will always be able to follow you. And he is younger even than me. You have no hope of winning this war, sir. It would be better by far to surrender now, before you are annihilated entirely.”

Will felt smug, the lightheadedness caused by his exhaustion fueling the sensation, and his interrogator smiled back at him for a moment, before bringing his fist forward with unexpected ferocity. As Will was sent sprawling in the dirt the veldkornet stood and barked orders to the man waiting outside of the tent. Will’s ears were ringing too intensely to hear what was being said and he was still dazed when the second man entered and removed his wrist shackles and stripped his shirt away. As he was dragged from the tent and out in to the intense heat his brain began to suspect what was to come but it was only when he was re-shackled, this time to a post in the ground, that he understood. The whip hit his skin without restraint, burning stripes in to his back, and Will found himself counting the strikes, his mind regressing to the harsh days of his youth and school-day beatings, though he could not stop the gasps of pain that escaped his lips with each strike.

“You will not mock me, boy,” the veldkornet told him when the whipping stopped, standing over him as if he were no more than a dog he had caught on his property and intended to do away with. “And you will tell me the truth. Eventually. For now I shall leave you to appreciate the sunshine. It seems your back has never seen it before and I am sure a little colour will do your memory the world of good. Good-day, Lieutenant.”

Will tried to lower himself in to a more comfortable position, to rest his taught muscles, but the chains were short and there was no room for movement. The welts left by the whip burned and soon the rest of his skin did too as the morning sun began to rise, the movement of the shadows his only guide for the passage of time. He tried to focus his mind on anything other than the pain, but it was next to impossible to do so. He was lost, at the mercy of his enemies, and they seemed to have very little mercy indeed. To distract himself from the pain he turned his thoughts away from his current predicament and chose to think of the one thing in his life that brought him happiness: Bill. He wondered how Bill had fared in the taking of the compound, how he would be faring now, back at the barracks with no way of knowing what had become of Will, and with no way to reach him. He had seen what grief and worry did to the man, hated to think that he was going through such pain again, but there was nothing to be done. He had no doubt that Bill would be able to find him, he really was the best tracker the regiment had, but he doubted very much that White would allow such a search. Hope, it seemed, was distant and fading thing.

As evening finally drew in he found himself weeping silently, unable to control himself even when the dust covered veldkornet returned to ask whether he had reconsidered his position and was ready to tell the truth.

“I have told you all I know,” Will croaked, shaking wretchedly as he was freed from the post and handed a shallow bowl of water. “I do not know who your spy is. I cannot help you.”

There was a sigh of disappointment somewhere above him but Will found he could not focus on such sounds, or on his surroundings at all. He allowed himself to be dragged to a larger tent, and thrown down on a straw mattress. Someone urged him to drink, a familiar voice, though in his delirium he couldn’t place it, and hands were soon supporting him and pressing sodden bread to his lips. He did as he was told, until sleep and exhaustion began to take him over.

“Oh, my dear William,” came a whisper as long fingers began to stroke his hair. “What have they been doing to you?”


	15. Chapter 15

August 1st, 1915  
Western Front,  
France

 

Bill shut his eyes tight against the dust that fell across his face, coating his eyelids, nose and mouth, like the first toss of dirt upon a coffin, resisting the urge to swear or even breathe too loudly as he made his slow way back toward the distant candle light and the promise of relative safety. His fingers burned as he clawed his way along, the nails cracked and broken from the stones and the constant muck. His right ear was ringing again, so loud he worried even the Germans would be able to hear it, and his heart ached within his chest as he fought to stay calm long enough to get out of the claustrophobic tunnel. He was far too old for this.

He’d thought that, given time, his body’s reaction to such conditions would ease, that the memories and fears that began erupting from the darkest recesses of his mind the first time he was forced to squeeze himself through a tunnel barely wide enough for his narrow shoulders, would fade. Instead, since coming to the Glory-hole, they’d become more oppressive, plaguing him day and night until he seemed to be constantly shaking and unable to concentrate due to the sounds and images circling around inside his skull. 

Some days the stench of sweat in the tunnels forced him to relive the tack room, the childhood punishment of being beaten and locked away in the dark. Other days the constant digging and closeness of the mines dragged his mind back to the Cape and the desperation of digging towards Will, the panic of the prisoners’ uprising, the intensity of the blast that shattered his ear. His nerves were being burnt away and he knew that soon enough it would result in a mistake that could prove disastrous to more than just himself. 

As he stopped to catch his breath Bill berated himself again for losing focus and he let his head fall so that his forehead pressed against the chalk. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Of course nothing that happened in the mines or trenches, or his memories, could compare with the distress of his heart every time he received news from Colonel White or a letter from Will. He had four of them now, each from a different prison camp, each one showing worrying signs that Will was not coping well with his confinement.

The typhus had passed, though Will had expressed surprise at the fact, and put it down to the British doctor who had attended him and who had insisted he be moved from Wittenberg. But on its heels Will had developed a cough that refused to clear, and complained of a faint but constant ringing in his ears that made Bill wince in sympathy. The old ‘splinter’ wound seemed in a constant state of infection and bother and William’s words, the way he wrote, reminded Bill a little too strongly of the way he had spoken after his time in the Boer prison camp; as if his mind had lost its focus and grasp of reality and time. It was worrying. Everything about Will’s letters was worrying. 

The cough, he had reported in his most recent letter, had now become pneumonia. Bill had memorised every letter sent to him so had no need to remove it from within his coat as he lay in the tunnel, not wishing to move until he was properly calm, and so recited it to himself, picturing in his mind the postcard it had been written on - the picture postcard of Will. He had memorised that as well.

The pneumonia was a surprise to no one, it seemed, but surprisingly had led to Will being moved, again, only this time to a proper prison hospital. William found himself once more under the care of the doctor who had saved his life at Wittenberg, one Dr. Alfred Soorjo, and declared it a most astonishing state of affairs. 

Bill was determined not to be jealous of the doctor who seemed to have attached himself firmly to Will. They were in the middle of the bloodiest, and muddiest, war he could imagine and he had neither time nor energy to waste on jealousy, but it was still a niggling feeling within the back of his mind, a black ink spot on a white shirt that refused to be washed away. Will was seemingly safe, the niggle told him, cosy and well cared for by a man who he had described as ‘robust of build, and tall, intelligent, and with a most enlivening sense of humour.’ It rankled. Bill had run off in to a war with the hope of finding Will, sure in his heart that he was doing what was right in seeking his husband out, only to end up stuck in a hole, covered day and night in mud and muck and a layer of chalk dust that ensured he could never be clean, while William sat in a comfortable bed, with a man who was clearly Bill’s superior in every way.

Which of course wasn’t true, he told himself as he began to move again, shifting his weight as silently as he could whilst unspooling the fuse wire for the explosives he’d laid under the German listening post. Will wasn’t spending his time as a Prisoner of War cosying up to handsome doctors, no matter what that horrible voice in his brain kept whispering. In the whole time they’d been together Bill had never had cause to worry about the depth of Will’s affections, or seen him look at another man with anything more than a passing appreciation for his figure. Even Charlie was invisible to Will, no matter how long the poor man had been terminally love sick, and Bill knew that however hopeless he felt about their situation, there was no going back now. He was there to rescue his William and bring him home because that was what he did. He just wished it didn’t involve so much time spent digging about in the dirt.

“You alright there, Mullen?” Evans whispered when Bill reached the tunnel’s end, so softly that Bill wasn’t entirely sure that he’d heard the man right. He nodded his reply but the sergeant didn’t look convinced as he stuffed the hole with sandbags as quietly as the task would allow. Once Bill’s tunnel was stopped up they both moved as swiftly as they could, extinguishing the candles as they went, running at a crouch back to the outer chamber where the rest of their tunnel’s crew were waiting, and though he shot Bill several worried glances, Evans didn’t question him openly once there were others to overhear. “Alright men,” he said instead, in a slightly louder whisper, and Bill focused on reading the man’s lips so as not to miss anything. “Normally I’d give this honour to a proper officer, but since we’re short of one lieutenant at the moment, I’m bestowing this honour on the next best thing. Bill?”

Bill blinked as the detonator was handed to him. He was happy enough to do the deed but wasn’t sure why Evans was making such a big deal of it, or how it was an honour.

“Come on, Little Bill,” one of the Yorkshire men said, grinning at him jovially. “Blow ‘em t’ hell.”

Bill smiled at that. He liked the miners. They didn’t understand or care for army rules or protocol and were a rowdy bunch when off duty; they reminded Bill of the boy he’d been when he first signed up. They didn’t salute, they didn’t march, but they could dig, and they seemed to have taken to Bill. He pushed down the plunger, feeling the teeth of the bar clink as they slotted in to position so swiftly it felt like the device was humming. It gave a jolt when the plunger hit the bottom, and every man in the chamber ducked and covered his ears in the seconds between the charge igniting in the detonator and the first of Bill’s dynamite exploding deep beneath the German outpost.

It rippled through the earth, hitting them with a decent shock wave, even as far back from the blast as they were, and Bill grimaced at the feeling, hating the way it seemed to make the thick ringing in his right ear worse, and the silence in his left more deafening. He did his best to smile along with the other men as they congratulated each other on a job well done, but couldn’t seem to summon any joy, or any feeling at all, as he turned to Evans and prepared to detonate the second round. Always prepare a second round, Evans had taught him, to catch the rescue team when they began to dig in to the rubble. Bill counted down the minutes, pushed down the plunger, watched the men cover their ears, and shivered as the explosion rumbled through. 

He yawned until his jaw cracked when the sound had passed, to the delight of several of the miners, but was too tired to engage in the friendly ribbing and when they finally reached the mouth of the trench Bill sighed with relief, hoping to finally get a chance to rest, only to be met with a breathless young runner who informed Sergeant Evans, and the whole unit, that there was a Major Ainsley waiting in the reserve trench, wanting to see Corporal Mullen on the most urgent business. 

“What you done this time, Little Bill?” one of the miners asked him as the other men wandered off for some hard earned rest. “You undermine his cosy little office and give him a scare?”

“Nah,” Bill said, grinning genuinely now. “Ainsley’s just an old friend, though I wasn’t aware he’d got himself a promotion.” He saw Sergeant Evans again looking at him with concern but gave a cheery shrug, hoping to placate the man whose nosiness and questions were becoming increasingly difficult to skirt around. “The last time I blew up his living quarters it was a Boer prison camp and he was in on it. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He could tell Evans’ wasn’t convinced, his eyebrows were forming a dark and stormy V above his eyes and he was chewing on his unlit cigarette like he intended to just eat the damn thing rather than smoke it, but Bill didn’t have time to waste convincing him. There was a good chance that this visit really was a social one, but there was also a chance that it had something to do with Will, and he didn’t want to waste a second defending a half truth. He gave a casual salute before turning to follow the runner but managed to hear one of the miners mumble as he passed, the man not bothering to lower his voice due to a mistaken belief among the men that Bill was far more deaf than he actually was.

“So many secrets, that Little Bill. You can see it in his eyes. I’m glad he’s on our side. I wouldn’t like to meet him as an enemy in the dark. Not with those eyes. He’s more than he seems, mark my words.”

Bill tried to seem unaffected, as if he hadn’t heard the words, but it still bothered him. The miners were a welcoming group for the most part but they still didn’t quite trust him. He wondered what there was to see in his eyes. He imagined that mostly he just looked tired, but he was determined too and he marched toward the reserve trench with as firm a step as he was capable of and entered the HQ dugout with such surety that Charlie looked up with a start. 

“Major Ainsley, sir,” he said, giving a casual salute and broad grin and he strode down the steps. “It’s been a while, sir. It’s good to see you.”

A wan smile fluttered across Charlie’s lips at the sight of him but he only nodded his hello and dismissed the runner quickly, and the disgruntled captain who was with him, waiting until they were most definitely alone before stepping forward to greet Bill properly, with a tight embrace, and a hitched breath. 

“Oh, Bill, it’s good to see you,” he murmured as he shuffled back, his eyes darting about nervously, his body taut. “Not good to be seeing you here, of course,” he smiled again for a moment. “But good to see you... all the same.”

“You too, Charlie,” Bill agreed, reaching out to squeeze the man’s arm reassuringly. “You too. But is this just a social call? Not that I mind but-”

“No,” Charlie interrupted, “no I wouldn’t have been able to get away from my desk for a social call, though I was particular about coming today, rather than delaying... because of the date.” He glanced up, all nerves, his concern growing when Bill returned his gaze blankly. “It is... the first, Bill. The first of August. Your birthday.”  
“Oh.” Bill hadn’t seen much point in keeping track of the date. The days had all collapsed in to one another in a slurry of mud and gunfire and the only change he had marked had been the arrival of a stifling heat to replace the aching cold. He still wasn’t entirely sure how summer had come and gone so fast but he took Charlie at his word and began to nod, unsure how to stop once he’d begun. If it was August that meant he had missed his wedding anniversary as well, hadn’t even thought of it, of the last happy day he’d had with Will. If it was the first of August that made it the anniversary of their first kiss, fifteen years ago, a moment he had considered one of the happiest in his life. “Is it really?”

The ground seemed to fall away from him as the reality rushed upwards, and Bill struggled to draw breath, overcome by a sudden dizziness. He felt as if a candle had been snuffed out within him, the flame dying as it was starved of oxygen in the darkness of his chest. How had so many months passed? How had he survived without Will by his side, and how had he let the daily struggles of the war make him forget his true objective?

“Yes, old boy,” Charlie smiled fleetingly, “and a whole year since I saw you last. And I wanted to be here, for you. In case... in case it pained you, I suppose. My commanding officer thought I seemed rather too keen to head out toward the front lines when I announced my intention to set off within the hour of receiving the order, especially since the action isn’t planned to go ahead for another month. He thinks I am rather losing my marbles, I think,” he smiled again. “But I could hardly tell him my real reason for wanting to come to such a place. It really is horrid here, Bill. I don’t know how you can take it.”

“Not much choice in the matter, Charlie boy,” Bill confessed, letting the weariness bleed through the cheerful facade. He smiled quickly to cover it, seeing the distress in Charlie’s eyes, and the way he was wringing his hands as if he intended to do himself harm. “Thanks for coming, though. I appreciate it, Charlie, I really do.” He stepped forward and opened his arms to his friend, knowing how difficult he must be finding the situation, being so close to the front, and that he was suffering in the absence of William just as much as Bill was. He let the embrace last as long as Charlie needed and only loosened his hold when he felt the other man shift himself back, and was pleased to find his friend a little more settled when they parted, if also a little red about the eyes. “Now what’s this order you’ve received? And how can I help?”

“Ah, well! They want some bridges blown up,” Charlie explained quickly, striding over to the map table in the corner and waving his hand for Bill to follow, his enthusiasm mounting. “But they’re behind enemy lines, is the rub. They wanted the best they said and I said, well I know the best and I’ll bet he knows the second best and third and fourth and so on, so if you want the best, I’m the man to fetch him for you. We’re planning a push you see, just here,” he pointed, “where this river splits off in to three. You see, I think we can isolate the enemy more easily at this point, but we need the bridges blown to the south to protect the flank. That’s where you come in.”

The longer Charlie talked the harder it became for Bill to follow, especially when he began waving his hands about and pacing, but Bill didn’t try to stop him. He’d go over the important parts later, right now he knew his friend needed to talk and that nothing would be able to stop him without also causing him significant embarrassment and distress. Bill stood back and watched instead, swaying on his feet and cataloguing the changes in Charlie’s manner and person. He didn’t look well. His skin was pale and he was vibrating with worry and his eyes were darting between the door and the map and every corner of the room. Bill found himself a seat and crossed his arms, hugging himself tight and trying to get comfortable. He’d rarely seen Charlie so agitated, and it wasn’t a good sign. He waited until at last the words seemed to peter out and Charlie flopped down in to a chair opposite and then, slowly, careful not startle the man, Bill leant forward and took his hand.

“Charlie, it’s alright. I can do that mission, probably in my sleep if I have to,” he said in a gentle, yet insistent voice, encouraging his friend to meet his eyes. “But Charlie, have you heard any news of Will?”

“Oh, Bill,” Charlie murmured eventually, his large eyes once again red and swimming with tears. “I am so sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry.”

Bill stared as the silence thickened and curdled around them, but not at Charlie. He couldn’t bear to look at his friend after hearing such words, such sadness, and Charlie, it seemed, was struggling to summon anything else to say on the matter. Instead he stared at the rough wood of the wall, the structure made from railway sleepers set in to the mud, so old they looking like they were made of stone, rough enough that to lean against them would guarantee a dozen splinters. He wanted to throw himself against them, to do himself harm, such was the sudden grief that had risen within him like tar, but he bit his lip and refused the impulse. He had believed in WIlliam’s death too many times over the years and now he simply couldn’t. No matter what Charlie intended to tell him, Bill reminded himself, Will was not dead, and he would not believe it until they showed him the man’s body and let him check for vitals himself. 

“Don’t be sorry, Charlie,” he said at last, his words so soft he could barely hear them himself, but Charlie shook his head and dragged his chair closer, the harsh scrape of it along the floor causing them both to wince.

“Bill,” he whispered, his hand coming up to rest against Bill’s cheek, to guide him until their faces were aligned and he knew Bill could read his lips. “I’ve been searching, Bill, following the lead from the last letter, trying to sort out how he even got in to this mess, and why he’s been shunted around half of Germany.” He swallowed and Bill’s eyes flickered down to watch the bob of his throat before returning to his lips. Charlie was rarely so still, or so serious, and whatever he was trying to say, he needed Bill to hear and understand. “On my own time, of course. It hasn’t been easy. I suppose you knew Willie was a member of Intelligence? He never could hold back any part of himself from you. But I only found out when some chit of a corporal, barely old enough for long trousers but old enough to be a spy apparently, informed me of the fact.” Bill could see the bitterness on his lips but didn’t begrudge him it. He was sure Will kept secrets even he did not know and that he might well feel the same upon learning them. Charlie was loyal to William, down to the bone, but that didn’t make it any easier to discover that his friend had hidden so much from him. “A dozen years he’s been working for that department, I found out, and not a word. But... the corporal, Corporal O’Connor, eventually gave me some of the details of how Willie was captured. Honestly, I suspect the lad has something of a passion for our dear William,” he smiled lamely before continuing, “he’s certainly loyal, and agreed to aid me in finding him. They were looking for proof of German gas. I sent a letter to Egg, she confirmed it from her end, that she was supposed to meet with Willie and a few others at around that time but he was absent from the meeting, though she was not told why at the time. God, this war’s such a mess! Forcing someone like Egg, our sweet Egg, in to it, can you imagine? It’s-”

“Charlie,” Bill interrupted, and watched Charlie bite his lip as he caught the excess words before they could tumble forth.

“Sorry old chap,” he apologised with a nod. “But our William... I tracked him to the hospital prison you told White of. Anything to do with Will and your letters he’s been passing along to me to investigate. He always did have a habit of palming his work off to others, but it’s serves our purpose here so I shan’t complain too hugely. I tracked him as far as the hospital and finally found some record that he had been seen by the Red Cross. They had no record of him before now, you see, which is most irregular but their report suggested, quite strongly, that he had been interrogated... and not treated at all well. Has he...” Charlie hesitated and Bill stared hard, unable to separate out the strong emotions he could see fighting for dominance in his friend’s eyes. “Has he made any mention to you... of such a possibility?”

Bill shook his head. Will’s letters had always been light in tone, if fairly sarcastic, for he knew they would be read by the German censors and that too much detail would result in the letter not being sent. But his most recent letter had not been a letter at all and he pulled the postcard from his coat hurriedly and thrust it toward Charlie, who took it up without hesitation, and stared longingly at the photo.

“Well I’d say that’s proof of maltreatment,” Charlie said slowly, running his fingers over the wasted cheek on the card, “though his captors might say it’s the very opposite.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Bill agreed grimly. “You can read it, Charlie, I don’t mind. He was definitely at the hospital when he wrote it, but said he didn’t expect to stay long. He talks of home more in this one than any of the others. He still thinks I’m there, back at Asphodel, I think.”

Charlie looked up from where he’d been studying the letter and gave him a look of sincere sympathy. “It’s for the best, Bill. I’ve tried writing to him but my letters haven’t reached him, from what I can tell. If your letters were coming directly from the trenches they might have been likewise turned away.”

“I don’t know why the Germans would take a photograph like that one, though,” Bill urged, staring once again at the pained expression on William’s thin face, the bandage visible around his leg as if the photo had been taken just after the wound was dressed. There were deep shadows under his eyes and his hands, covered in sores, were positioned across his knee in an odd way, as if to draw attention to his fingers. He looked almost like a stranger, yet at the same time so achingly familiar that it made Bill’s heart clench painfully within his chest. “It looks staged, I don’t understand it, or why they’d show us how poorly he looks. Will didn’t even make mention of it in the letter.”

He watched as Charlie examined the postcard critically. It was unusual to see him so serious but Bill reasoned that he’d achieved his promotion somehow and he knew the man was smarter than he seemed, and smarter than he let on to most people. “The censors appear to have suspected it of being staged as well, I think,” he mumbled quietly as he held the postcard up to his eyes. “This odd mark across it, you see? They were checking for invisible ink. But they didn’t find anything... I wonder... three fingers...”

He turned the card back over, staring at the photo of Will, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and the longing quite obvious in his eyes. Eventually he shook his head, defeated, turning his face away and holding the card out for Bill to take, which he did, slipping it back in to the inner pocket of his coat along with the other letters. Bill watched Charlie’s expression fall further with each passing second. None of what he’d said was startling news to Bill, he’d suspected Will was being mistreated and interrogated, he was a prisoner of war after all, and they all knew the risks. But none of what they’d discussed seemed to warrant the sadness he’d seen in the man’s eyes when he’d given Bill his apologies a few minutes ago. There was something he wasn’t saying, something he was holding back, and as much as Bill had no desire to hear the bad news, he knew it needed to come out.

“What’s happened to Will, Charlie?” he pressed but at first no answer came. Charlie shook his head, his lips pursed as if he feared he’d be sick if he dared to open his mouth, but Bill insisted. “Charlie!”

Charlie jumped, saluting reflexively and then blushing sheepishly, still avoiding Bill’s gaze. “When I was speaking with the Red Cross they informed me of an attempted prison break at the hospital where Will was being held,” he reported, his voice carefully devoid of emotion, even as his eyes betrayed him. “It had been planned for some time, it appears, so Willie cannot be implicated in that but I fear there is little doubt that he took part.”

“Of course he did,” Bill muttered and Charlie met the comment with a huff of laughter and quick smile. They both knew well how such confinement must be effecting Will’s state of mind. “So what happened?”

“Several fatalities,” Charlie admitted somberly. “The guards were brutal, even by this war’s standards, so the reports go. As yet we’ve not been given any names or numbers. The survivors have been sent to a handful of work camps, scattered to reduce their chances of trying again, I suppose, though how someone in Willie’s condition will cope at a work camp I’ve no idea. If he’s even still alive... I’m so sorry, Bill.”

Bill nodded, trying to process the information, trying to summon the correct emotions, the ones he knew Charlie expected to see from him, but they didn’t come. He expected nothing less really, from his William. And it was frustrating to once again have no clue where the man might be, but he refused to believe he was dead, not without proof, so took Charlie’s hand in his own and squeezed it tight. 

“We’ll find him, Charlie boy,” he told his friend earnestly. “You mark my bloody words. Even if I have to blow up every listening post, ever bridge, every soldier between here and Berlin, we will find him, and we will drag his sorry backside home again. Fred’s threatened to thrash us all soundly if we don’t and I’ve no doubt she’ll find a way, Charlie.”

“She certainly is a formidable lady,” Charlie chuckled and Bill grinned, happy to see the light restored to the man’s eyes, even if it was only a glimmer. The candle had flickered back to life in his own chest as he spoke and he resolved not to let it go out again. He would find Will and bring him home, even if it meant dragging a string of handsome doctors, smitten Intelligence officers and love sick friends along behind him.

The yawn caught him off guard, as did the rush of fatigue that followed it, but Charlie pulled him to his feet and in to one final hug before sending him back to his unit with orders to send his sergeant along and get his head down for a few hours. Bill gave him a lazy salute, which produced a surprised chuckle from Charlie and brought a new grin to his own lips.

“You know,” Charlie said just as Bill reached the stairs, and he stopped to hear the words, which seemed closer in tone to the old Charlie than Bill had heard so far. “I feel I’ve aged a century over the last year, and yet you don’t seem to have aged a day. You look exactly as you did on the day we met.”

“What?” Bill said with smile. “Covered in mud and plotting with you to blow holes in any wall that dared to hold our William captive?”

“Something like that,” Charlie agreed with a smile before his face returned to melancholy. “Happy birthday, Bill. Now get some rest if you can. I’ll try to stay in touch, if I hear anything useful.”

Bill nodded and left. The pain of realising he had been without Will for over a year was still there, along with the grief of knowing his first wedding anniversary had gone uncelebrated, but he felt strangely hopeful. He’d feared that Will had given up, but felt heartened by the man’s attempted escape, even if it had been unsuccessful. He would find Will, he told himself, somehow. And they would escape together. They had a life to get back to, after all; a future they had fought too hard for, and Bill had been called stubborn enough times in his life to start believing it was true. He was getting too old for soldiering, maybe, but he’d never be too old to save his William.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: whipping, pain, hunger, sunburn, mental instability

February 25th 1901  
Cape Colony,  
South Africa 

Will woke to someone shaking his shoulder, a panicked hand that gripped him so tight that the fingers seemed to scrape against his bones. He’d never realised that a person could lose weight at such speed, so aggressively, but he felt as if all muscle and fat had been stripped from him, evaporated off, leaving behind only bone and dry worn out skin. And hunger. It was the heat he thought hatefully. He wouldn’t be in such dreadful shape if not for the heat. He felt ill, nausea rocking through him like an incoming tide, made worse by the insistent hand and the counter rhythm of his pounding head. Whoever it was obviously wanted him to wake but he still fought against opening his eyes, he had no desire to enter the real world. Until, that is, the voice broke the fog of his mind and he recognised not just the urgency but the speaker.

“Charlie?”

His eyes shot open in confusion but when he attempted to rise from his stomach on to his elbows the pain in his back and head sent black spots dancing madly in front of his eyes and he fell back on to the thin straw mattress with a gasp. 

“Just take it easy now, Willie,” Charlie whispered harshly, handing him a small chunk of bread as if it were something precious and watching as Will ate with difficulty, his own eyes hungry. “The guard will be ‘round shortly to bully us all out of bed and up for the day and you need to be decent before he arrives, believe you me. They can be rather harsh masters, the old Boer. It’s not so bad, honestly,” he shrugged after a moment, as if it truly were of little importance, though to Will’s blurred vision he was greatly altered from the young man of twenty-two he’d been the last Will had seen him. “But you must tell them what they want to know, Willie. They can be... unkind when crossed.”

Will blinked and looked closer, at how thin Charlie had become, the lack of any boyish fat about his face, the drawn, tanned, hollows of his cheeks, a scar that ran along the underside of his chin. They hadn’t seen one another for more than two years but Charlie seemed to have aged more than those years could account for. 

“What happened to you, Charlie boy?” he croaked, making a second attempt at sitting up. His back, he knew, was horribly sunburnt, and he could feel every welt along it as his skin shifted, but he swallowed the pain as best he could along with the meagre breakfast Charlie offered. “I thought you were in with the cavalry. What the hell happened?” Charlie gave a fleeting smile, a faded, nervous thing, but didn’t reply immediately. He glanced toward the entrance of the long tent, wary, frightened, but he wasn’t the only one. The space was filled with men rousing and pulling on boots and shirts, all swiveling their heads toward the entrance to the tent. “Charlie?” he asked again, and this time his old friend turned to look at him properly, his eyes indelibly tired.

“Black Week, Willie,” he said eventually. “I was out here barely two months before they cut down my unit like cattle. I rather disgraced myself, I fear. Since then,” he shrugged, sitting back to give Will room to pull himself in to a proper sitting position, wincing in sympathy as he watched Will struggle in to the shirt offered. “They’ve put us to work, digging trenches, plowing fields, building their homes and fortifications - doing whatever they need done. It hasn’t been as bad as I feared, but it hasn’t been pleasant.”

Will watched as Charlie blinked rapidly, as if to clear memories out of his head that pained him, but there was no chance to talk further because the tent flap had was pushed aside, exposing them all to the harsh morning light, and with it came the dusty veldkornet from the day before, striding through the rows of low cots until he reached the spot where Will and Charlie sat.

“Well well, little lieutenant,” he said jovially, and Will fought back the urge to cringe away from the man’s boots and booming voice. “Are we ready to tell the truth?”

For a while Will couldn’t seem to find his voice. Surely the man understood that he had already told the truth; Bill was the reason they’d been able to get one step ahead of the Boer commandos and their explosives, not some mysterious double agent. The idea of a spy or turncoat was ludicrous and he scoffed loudly, unable to properly guard his actions in such a state of exhaustion, only to be grabbed roughly by the collar of his shirt and dragged toward the entrance of the tent. None came to his aid, they only watched, not so much fearful as resigned, though any who caught Will’s eye looked away quickly.

“You will not mock me, boy,” the veldkornet told him, without anger or malice as he threw him to the ground in the dust, gesturing casually to one of the guards to remove Will’s shirt and shackle him to the post in the centre of the barren yard. “You will give me the name of the man who has been telling you of our movements. When you do, you shall have food and water and an easy life here. But until then-”

The whip came down across his back at an angle, slicing through his skin and several of the cuts from the previous day, and as Will clenched his teeth against the need to cry out he found himself counting the strikes once more, first in his head and then under his breath, focusing on the numbers to keep himself from struggling too obviously. His wrists were already raw, it would do him no good to injure himself more by trying to escape the beating, and he had no wish for the man to see him scrabble about in the dirt like an animal. 

Instead he focused on the strongest, happiest memories he could call to mind; Bill giving one of his sharp salutes, to the intense frustration of Sargent Llewelyn, and then relaxing in to an exaggerated slouch and a wide grin, his front teeth offering a flash of white from between his full, dark, lips, his eyes shining with mischief and lust and love. He thought of Bill sitting above him, grinding his hips down hard against Will’s, shivering and giggling in the most infatuating, contagious way. He thought of Bill, looking up at him from the corner of his cell, realising that Will was alive, his face a parade of emotions from wonder to grief to anger to rapture, tears falling for Will in a way he had never thought to imagine. Bill’s skin in the candlelight, polished rosewood, tantalising umber that Will couldn’t help but touch and taste, gods how he loved to taste. Bill’s lips as he breathed the words, ‘My William.’ 

“Give me the name of the man,” the veldkornet ordered when he had grown tired of the whip, bored perhaps, with Will’s lack of appropriate quaking, his words cutting through Will’s daydream as the leather had cut through his skin. He crouched down and fisted Will’s short curls roughly, pulling his head up so that Will was forced to inhale the dust kicked up by his boots. “Give me the name of the man who is aiding you and undermining our work.”

“Bill,” Will said without thinking, squeezing his eyes shut so that the lie and the truth of his statement might be kept from his captor. “Bill Mullen.”

There was a beat of silence. The fingers tightened in his hair, pulling painfully before releasing and letting Will’s face fall to the dirt.

“Is it indeed?” he pondered, and Will felt certain that the man didn’t believe him, especially when he stood and made no move to release Will from his shackles. “Well then, little lieutenant, if at the end of the day I have found this man, this Bill Mullen, I will refrain from continuing our daily exercises. If at the end of the day you have decided to give me the real name of your informant, I may likewise refrain. However, if I can find no truth in your statement...” he let the threat hang, stepping back to get a better view of Will’s pitiful position, and Will shivered violently, despite the building heat. “Think long and hard,” the man eventually told him, and Will could hear the laughter in the man’s voice though could not himself see how the situation was at all amusing. “You have many hours ahead of you to spend in thought. Do not waste them.”

The hours did pass but William wasn’t capable of thought, six hours later, when Charlie appeared to offer him a hurried sip of water. His mind had gone beyond thinking and he couldn’t even seem to recall his old friend’s name.

“Bill? Bill,” he whispered brokenly, nodding to himself as Charlie held the canteen of water to his lips and urged him to drink. “Bill Mullen. He’s the man. Bill.”

“Of course he is,” Charlie murmured comfortingly. “Of course, Willie. You can tell me all about him tonight. Just,” his hand shook, the water spilling down Will’s chin as he tried to angle it properly, though Will was barely aware of it. “Just make it through, won’t you, old boy? I can’t afford to lose another friend.”

~~~~

Bill looked across at the large, walled barracks from the safety of the largest tree he could find, pressing his cheek against the rough bark to keep his mind from giving in to exhaustion as he tried to judge whether he had found the right place, and how he could possibly get Will out. He’d walked so far, had barely slept for fear that he’d be too late and that when he finally caught up with the Boer Will would be beyond help and now he feared he really was too late, the dread niggling in the back of his mind without reprieve. Initially he thought he’d be able to catch them up before they reached their destination but they had set a grueling pace and in the last stretch of the journey Bill had found it too easy to track them thanks to the scuffs that marked where men had fallen during the march and been forced to rise, and the dark stains on the rocks and dirt that he knew were droplets of blood. 

He bit his lip and climbed to the next branch, trying to see in through the open entranceway or over the wall, but he was still too far away to pick out any details, and his eyes were too tired. He snorted and rolled his eyes at himself as he recalled the binoculars Llewelyn had packed for just such a moment, and wrapped his leg tight around the trunk of the tree for balance as he began to rifle through his pack for them. He really was too tired to think straight but there was nothing to be done about it. If he’d found where Will was being kept then time was really of the essence, and if for some reason Will wasn’t within those walls then he couldn’t afford to stop. He just needed to find the man and get him free, sleep could happen when the job was done. 

The binoculars gave a much clearer view and Bill watched groups of what appeared to be prisoners moving about laying foundations for at least one new building. The Boer, it seemed, had plans to stay and were putting their prisoners of war to use. He tried to count the men but it was difficult to know exactly who might be a prisoner because while some men in the work parties were in British uniform others were in civvies and the Boer were only identifiable by their weapons. As he watched a group was even marched out of the compound with an armed escort, in the direction of another stand of trees, off to fell more trees he guessed, based on the presence of their axes. 

Bill shifted his gaze, his attention caught by an odd looking shadow out in the centre of the yard where no shadow should have been, his eyes narrowing as he studied it, trying to focus the lenses and his eyes to see what the shape could be. The more he knew about the Boer stronghold the better if he intended to stage a break-in and that shadow made no sense. It seemed ominous and he needed to know what it was. He nearly slipping out of the damned tree when the shape moved and he realised that what he was looking at wasn’t some odd shadow, but the hunched figure of a man. 

Now that he knew what he was looking at the curve of the spine was unmistakable, even if the skin was far from the marble white it should have been. Will, his brain told him, though he knew that realistically there was no way he could be sure at such a distance, and without seeing the man’s face. But he was sure. It was his William.

“Those bastards,” he muttered to himself when he saw the welts on etched in to the severely sunburnt skin. He was chained in direct sunlight, in the hottest month of the year, and had obviously been whipped or beaten. 

Bill fought against the urge to vomit as his gorge rose like a wave. There was no time to waste, he decided, he needed to get in to those barracks and get Will out, and the rest of the men being prisoner as well. He couldn’t leave Will in such a position. He’d just have to blow a hole in the wall and hope for the best. He made to climb down the tree and head for the Boer camp but another movement caught his eye and he stopped to look, frowning until the movement came again. A dog, he realised. A wild dog possibly, but neither the guard at the entrance, or the one above on the wall seemed to notice the creature. There wasn’t so much as a flicker in the eye to say that they’d seen the animal and Bill tried to study the lay of the land and the barracks in the way he’d seen Will do. He felt sure he’d be able to use the information, if only he could figure out why it seemed important. It was like looking for tracks or explosives, he decided; he was looking for clues to something important, he just needed to figure out how it all fit together.

As the sun began to make its lazy way down toward the horizon Bill finally climbed back down to the ground. Despite his initial urge to run at the gates, hoping to take out as many Boer as he could before they realised what was happening, he’d had taken the time to draft out a plan and he was glad for it. There was too much riding on his choices, Will’s life, or his skin at least, and so he made his slow and careful way down to the wall following the path the dog had taken, moving with as much care as he could. There was a garbage heap against the wall a good distance from the entrance, a place that was obviously considered of no importance and not worth watching, the dog he’d seen had obviously been scavenging there, and a dozen feet away was a collection of rocks, as if a giant had dropped them into a haphazard pile, and Bill crept to them cautiously, close to the ground. He watched the guard at the entrance change with a strange sense of glee as he realised he was completely hidden from sight and when the work party he’d seen leaving early in the day returned they didn’t seem to see him either and no alarm was raised, even when he chanced a glance above the stones. 

He grinned as he settled himself back down against the smooth plane of the largest rock, feeling secure in a way he hadn’t since Will’s capture. He had a safe place to camp, he knew where Will was being held, and he had a plan. Bill knew he wouldn’t be able to run in to the base, hoping to snatch Will away somehow, and he knew that simply setting dynamite against that wall wouldn’t necessarily get him in. He sat down among the rocks and opened his pack, chewing on a scrap of dried meat as he took out the items he would need, trying to stay as quiet as he could. He’d complained, more than once, about having to carry a shovel when their unit hadn’t been called on to dig any trenches, but he was thankful for it now, and wasted no time in beginning his tunnel, looking up regularly to ensure that he was still hidden from the enemy. He couldn’t blow the wall the normal way, the thing looked thick and solid, but if he could dig underneath it and plant his dynamite then there was a chance he could destabilise the whole thing and cause enough chaos for the prisoners to break free, and for him to reach Will and get him out. 

He worked through the night, until his hands and shoulders burned and his back screamed at him in protest, but he found it difficult to stop even so, even when he could barely breathe for yawning. He had dug a hole deeper than he was tall and had begun to curve it around and toward his target and was relieved at how cool his dug out was as the sun began it’s relentless climb. He wondered how Will was faring, whether he would get some reprieve, and what he’d done to be treated so harshly. Will wasn’t the sort to cause trouble, not usually. He obeyed rules and made the best of things, yet the position Bill had seen him in, shackled and exposed and hurt, it all suggested that Will had angered his captors, and was being made an example of. 

When the sun was at its hottest he finally forced himself to stop and slept heavily for several hours before the noise of the prisoners returning to the camp with their day’s felled timber woke him with a jolt. He had run out of water the morning before and his hands shook strangely as he ate the last of the meat he’d brought with him. It was a feeling he was well acquainted with, the gnaw of hunger and exhaustion, but he also knew that he didn’t have a great many options when it came to food, so tried to put it out of his mind. He’d go out looking for food during the night, he told himself, he couldn’t afford to die from lack of water before he even made it to the wall. 

~

Bill carried on digging for the next three days, relentless in his work and not leaving the narrow tunnel other than to cart the excess soil out, and to raid the garbage that was periodically dumped against the outside of the wall. There was little point in sleeping, his mind wouldn’t let him properly rest and presented him with nightmares instead, images of Will, at first smiling and soft, then ripped from him, pulled in to a darkness that Bill couldn’t seem to penetrate, his eyes large and fearful and full of pain, as they’d been the day he took the bullet meant for Bill’s chest. Digging was easier than sleeping.

On the fourth day the soil seemed to crumble more readily, as if something were sitting heavily above him and Bill smiled broadly as he began to widen the space. He’d kept the tunnel tight most of the way, just large enough for him to maneuver the shovel and remove the fill but now he dug out a larger cavern, a space big enough to do some real damage and take out as large a portion of the wall as he could. He actually giggled as he thought of it, he’d come to hate the enemy so much more than he’d imagined he could, for taking his Will, for stealing away the one true joy in his life, and couldn’t wait to make them hurt in kind. 

He pushed the last of the fill out ahead of him, grimacing against the pain in his raw knees and broken finger nails. The stones hadn’t moved easily and he’d had to pry them out of the soil with his hands, and his fingers now buzzed at him angrily at all times. The uneven circle of boulders that shielded his work was getting rather full, but he intended to put a good deal of it back, to force the explosion forward rather than back out through the tunnel and he felt savagely pleased at the thought of destroying the rocks that had damaged his hands. The dirt could wait a little though. He needed to focus on organising his dynamite, and for that he needed to eat. 

He edged his way forward to look above the stones, suddenly nervous and shaking. He tried to tell himself it was only the hunger but he knew that it had more to do with the impending attack. He’d been so focused on blowing the wall for so long that now both his mind and body were craving the flare of the match, the hiss of the lit fuse, and the bright blossom of the blast. It was an ache within his chest, a need, as great as his need for Will, for his William, and he shut his eyes tight against the craving and pain. Soon, he told himself. Soon the wall that separated them would be gone and he would get to his Will and take him to safety by any means necessary. 

The sun was just beginning to kiss the horizon when he opened his eyes, which meant that soon the prisoner who’s been tasked with the daily disposal of the garbage was due to arrive, and so he watched for him, an idea forming in the back of him mind. The man reminded Bill of a frog. He’d been watching him each day, the resignation in his shoulders, the nervous twitching of his eyes, the way his chin just seemed to slope in to his neck. He was definitely British, Bill reckoned, with a chin like that, and for the last two days he’d left clean bread and a small bowl of water by the rubbish heap, so Bill figured he was definitely smart too, and counted him as an ally.

When the man appeared, looking beaten and wary as ever, Bill watched him carefully, weighing his options. He double checked that they weren’t being observed and then, before he could think better of his actions, scrabbled to the small mound of trash on all fours, arriving just as the other man did, making his eyes bug out of his head so that he looked more like a frog than ever. To his credit he didn’t cry out but Bill reckoned that was mostly because he looked too exhausted to make much of a fuss. Instead he handed over the bread and cup of water silently and watched as Bill ate and drank, staring with an odd fascination for so long that Bill began to think twice about making himself properly seen, until the man spoke.

“Are you Bill then? Bill Mullen?” he asked simply, and gave a lopsided shrug at Bill’s wide eyed expression. “Willie... he speaks of you. There aren’t many Aboriginal men out here, you know, let alone ones who would choose to stake out such an out of the way compound. You are Bill, aren’t you? Willie’s... corporal?”

“Will told you about me?” Bill interrupted, panic and discomfort rising in his throat, but there was only fondness in the man’s eyes and none of the judgement or scorn he had expected.

“Willie and I have known each other a long time,” he explained. “William, yourself, and I, we all share a certain proclivity, you might say. Not that he has given either of you away to anyone, I assure you but... I know my friend. He mumbles your name in his sleep, calls out to you to save him from his nightmares... And he has told me a little of you in his waking hours, when we are permitted the time for such things, of course. And I am rather clever in my way. I figured it out,” he smiled nervously, glancing up at Bill as if he feared some sort of retribution before returning his gaze to his hands, which he seemed to be twisting in to knots. “But I haven’t quite figured out what you’re doing here, Bill old chap. You’ll get in to horrible trouble if you’ve run off from your unit to track down a lover you’re not supposed to have, you know.”

“I know,” Bill answered, weighing up the man before him. He seemed sincere enough and Bill knew that it would be best to have a man on the inside when he set off his charges but it was still hard to trust him entirely. He’d never known a British man to be so at ease with the topic of sexuality, and it made him suspicious. “There’s going to be hell to pay when I get out of this. But it can’t be worse than what’s being done to Will. I’ve got to get him out, mate. And the rest of you by the look of things,” he said with a nod toward the man which earned him another fleeting, less than happy, smile. 

“But how?” he asked, glancing about nervously, obviously aware that he would soon be missed if he didn’t return. “What do you plan to do? Storm the walls?”

“No, mate,” Bill grinned sharply. “I’m blowing them. So what I want to know from you is when’s the best time to do it? And whether you think it’s worth giving the men in there a heads up about what’s coming? If my explosives can cause a big enough distraction for you lot to try for a full on prison break then this rescue might actually work. What d’you say?”

“Well, I’d say my name’s Charlie, rather than mate,” he said with a more genuine smile than Bill had seen before. “And I’d say that sounds like a fair plan, or at least as good as we’re likely to get. I’m not sure how successful we’ll be, or where we’ll go if we do somehow wrestle control from our captors, but if you know the way back to the British line?” he waited for Bill to ascent and nodded in acknowledgment, wetting his lips as if the strain of thinking beyond his own survival had become foreign to him. “Then I say we make a go of it. And if you plan to destroy the wall here? Then you should be able to take out the Boer barracks with any luck. And as for a time, shall we say dawn, perhaps? All of us... prisoners... tend to be jolly well exhausted by the evening, so at dawn we’ll be at our most rested, and there are no guards posted in our tent overnight. We could ready ourselves and await your signal?”

“I think that sounds like a fine plan, Charlie,” Bill said kindly, aware of how tightly wound the man seemed, how ready to snap. He could just about imagine Charlie and Will as friends, awkward and nervous boys together, quiet companions perhaps, but thinking such pleasant thoughts sent another pang of worry straight to his chest. “How’s Will?”

Charlie opened his mouth twice as if to speak before he finally gave Bill a tight lipped smile. “Not awfully well, young Bill. Let’s just say that it’s for the best that we act tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to delay. Never fear though,” he said, wrapping his arms around his waist as if for comfort. “I shall have him roused and ready when the time comes.”

Bill tried not to read in to Charlie’s words or body language over much; they were both overworked, overtired, and underfed, and he could hardly be more concerned for Will than he already was, but the fear he saw in Charlie’s eyes was enough to make him feel genuinely ill. 

“Thanks, Charlie,” he said finally, aware that the man had begun to fidget and was glancing around compulsively. “For looking out for Will. For everything. I’ll see you at dawn then?”

They parted with a nod and Bill crept carefully back to his hiding place amongst the rocks, buzzing even more than he had been before. He’d have a busy night ahead of him, placing the dynamite and filling in the tunnel, but it would be worth it. He just had to hope that Charlie was as good as his word and that the Boer didn’t catch wind of the morning’s action.


	17. Chapter 17

Asphodel Meadows,  
Hampshire  
1906

_Bill giggled, a sound so filled with delight that William found himself looking up and immediately smiling in response, even if the joyous laugh had interrupted his reading. He glanced over to where Bill was sat cross-legged on the grass, smiling impishly against the late afternoon sun. His hands were moving nimbly and Will glanced across to where Egg was sat against the leg of the bench, her own hands moving and her smile wide. Will thought it was a marvel, that she had taught Bill to sign, and told himself, as he always did when he saw the two at it, that he would ask her to teach him more than just the four or so signs that he’d managed to pick up from Bill. Bill himself had repeatedly claimed that it was no more than a bit of fun; Egg had taught him because her hearing had been impaired after a severe case of measles in childhood and her father had insisted on teaching her, but William understood his lover’s concern for his failing hearing. So often Bill had felt unheard, unnoticed, and dismissed in life, being able to communicate adequately was imperative for him. As soon as he returned from his next trip abroad, Will told himself, he’d learn to sign properly, if only to set his love’s mind at ease._

_“Why’d you stop?” Bill asked suddenly, looking at him with concern. Will smiled gently, doubly so when Charlie opened an eye and looked up at him from where he was using Will’s thigh as a pillow, his attitude so relaxed Will had thought him asleep._

_“I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation,” he said simply, loving the way Bill’s smile unfurled wider, and how he overzealously tucked his hands in to his lap._

_“We’re listening,” Egg said softly, tutting at Freddie’s good natured snort from where she lay across the bench._

_“We are,” Bill agreed. “Egg was only saying how Asphodel Meadows sounds far too ordinary and boring, because this place is so beautiful, and I said...”_

_Bill pursed his full lips but couldn’t keep the smile locked away for long and Will quirked an eyebrow at him, loving the way it made his squirm and blush. He put the book of Greek myths and legends down on the picnic rug beside him to give Bill his undivided attention and fought to keep his face serious as Bill’s blush deepened when Freddie and Charlie turned to look as well. He had been reading to them from the book after Charlie’s enquiry about the name of their home, how queer and mysterious Asphodel Meadows seemed as a title. Freddie had launched in to a lecture about the various realms of the dead in ancient Greek mythos but Will had saved his rather alarmed friend by offering to read some of the stories relating to Hades and Asphodel, the resting place for souls that had lived good, if unremarkable, lives. It had been soothing and William had felt as if time had stilled, and the air around them turning to rich, warm syrup, a peace that filled him with a deeper delight than seemed possible._

_“And you said?” Will prompted laughingly, enjoying the way Bill had begun to fidget under such attention. He watched his lover turn beseechingly to Egg, but she only gave him a look that said she would be of no help, and so he turned back to William, a spark of challenge in his eyes that made Will’s chest tighten. “Come now, dearest, it can’t be so bad as all that.”_

_“And I said,” Bill answered slowly, deliberately, his lips twitching, “that she was right. This can’t be the resting place of the ordinary when the man who is lord of it is a most beautiful demigod... who I gladly worship daily.”_

_Will bit the inside of of his cheek at that, his own skin heating at the fire of Bill’s gaze, the promise written there, and the brazen nature of the words. Freddie let out an uproarious laugh at the remark, startling several birds from the tree above them, which only made her laugh all the more. The wicked grin was now firmly in place on Bill’s impish face and he crawled toward William with intent, nudging Charlie from his position so that he could settle himself between Will’s legs, leaning in close until their noses touched, at which point he giggled low again, and pressed a gentle kiss to William’s yielding lips._

_“If there is anyone who is other than mortal and ordinary in this meadow, it has to be you,” Will told him when his lips were released, wrapping his arms loosely around Bill’s hips. “A sprite of the worst sort! Sent to torment me with kisses and-” Bill kissed him at that, furiously, and Will laughed when he was released, breathless and giddy, not caring that their friends were witnessing such a display. “Sent to torment me with kisses and the sort of ‘worship’ that could drive a man to madness!”_

_He allowed himself to be kissed again, quite happily, but Bill pulled away after a moment, to settle his forehead against Will’s and to murmur his question lovingly against his lips. “Marry me?”_

_Off to his left Will heard Charlie laugh in disbelief as he rolled up on his side in the grass to see whether Bill had truly asked such a question, and behind him Freddie made a sound of great surprise, but Will ignored them both and looked up, taking Bill’s face in his hands and pulling back until he could see his features properly, and the earnest expression etched in to them._

_“That’s ridiculous, dearest. We can’t,” he replied slowly, smiling, searching Bill’s eyes for some clue of what he was feeling. “Even kissing you is illegal,” he continued, punctuating the words with a delicate peck on Bill’s lips. “How would I go about marrying you?”_

_Bill sat back and shrugged, not put off in the slightest, staring at Will with firelight in his eyes and a stubbornness that Will had long ago resigned himself to. “It doesn’t have to be properly married. I’m not taking you off to a church or anything. But in those stories,” he nodded toward the book at his knee, “there wasn’t usually a proper wedding like people have here. They just... agreed to be married. Why can’t we?”_

_“We just can’t,” Will insisted. “It would be too dangerous.” He watched Bill’s eyes carefully, looking for hurt or disappointment. It was there, he could see the shadow of it but Bill covered it quickly and gave a shrug as he sat back on his legs, stretching his spine and giving a pout that gave proof to Will’s assertion that Bill had indeed been sent to torment him. He searched his mind for something to say, aware that Charlie, Freddie, and Egg were listening intently, but found it hard to say anything at all. His jaw wanted to clamp shut to stop him from speaking, to deny the truth, yet he knew he could not. He could hardly deny what Bill was to him with the man sat above him, when his body showed the truth rather plainly in his lap, when they shared a home and a bed and life together. But what could he say to compensate for that which he could not give. “I love you. You know I do. I’d marry you in a heartbeat if I could.”_

_Bill’s smile widened, drawing the pout out to something spectacular, and he swept down to kiss Will fiercely, ignoring the laughter of their friends. After some moments William released Bill and allowed him to sit back, both of them breathless, and then took up the large old book of myths and legends to continue reading. It had been a gift from his father from years ago. For all his icy separation from the world and distain for the emotions of others the man had been a lover of the ancients and had named Asphodel Meadows accordingly, because he thought it a quiet and peaceful, if entirely unremarkable piece of land. If only he knew, William thought with a quiet smile and a glance up to where Bill was once again stretching his arms and spine in a thoroughly distracting manner. If only he knew what secrets such a place could hold, and what joy._

_As he turned his attention back to the words, however, he felt a sudden jolt, a sickening lurch, and when he looked down at the page the words were a blur. He looked up in alarm only to find Bill still smiling at him, though not with the same carefree affection of moments ago; a melancholy had entered his eyes._

_“You will though,” Bill told him, the solemn tone at odds with the scene, with the memory as William recalled it. “You’ll say yes, eventually, and we’ll be married. Right here, in fact. You’ll kiss me and declare that you love me, just as you’ve done today, and we’ll walk down that lane hand in hand. I took my shoes off, you laughed. We kissed and we... and we live happily ever after I think.”_

_Will felt himself begin to shake, or perhaps it was the world around him quaking, coming apart at its seams as he became aware of the change occurring, the divergence from the memory, the realisation that this was a memory, that he had lived it before, but not like this._

_“I’m so sorry, Bill.”_

_“Nonsense,” Bill answered, shuffling forward again so that he was seated in Will’s lap, the book somehow gone from his hands. “We were happy and we’ll be happy again. I’ll find you, I’ll get you out of whatever hellhole you’ve been dropped in to. It’s what I do, remember? I’ll save you.”_

_“No,” Will whispered, his throat suddenly tight with the threat of tears. “No, that was before. I remember that. It nearly killed you. It cost you too much. And that was before. Not now. You’re at home, you’re here, you’re safe. I need you to be safe. I can’t let it be like before. I can’t-”_

_He brought a trembling hand up to Bill’s cheek, near overwhelmed by the softness of his skin, the fact that he could feel it, that it seemed so real. He traced the delicate pattern of scars along his lover’s jaw, the tears building with greater urgency behind his eyes as Bill leaned forward to press their foreheads together. A sob escaped his throat, burning as it was torn from him, but Bill only held him tight as the pain flooded in and the memory, the dream, began to collapse around them._

_“I will find you, William,” Bill breathed against his lips. “I swear by every god in that book that I’ll find you. Please just hold on until then? Please don’t give up hope? Keep living, please? For me?”_

_Will buried his head in Bill’s chest, unable to breathe, to think, to process what he was feeling. He wanted to stay in that moment, that happy memory with Bill, to forget the truth of his life and situation, but already the pain of his body was returning, the deep, horrifying ache that never left him, and he knew he didn’t have much time before he was ripped away from his fantasy world, before he was forced back in to his body, and the pain and the dirt. There was so much he needed to say, declarations of love, of gratitude, a need to know that Bill was safe at home, though he had long suspected otherwise. But even with his mind in such turmoil he knew that he had a job to do as well, and the need to see his work completed overrode all else._

_“In the letter, Bill,” he said desperately, watching his husband pull back to follow the movement of his lips. “The postcard. I couldn’t write on it’s surface all that I wished to. I am never free to write what I wish-” he stopped himself, hating how pitiful he sounded, and the deep sadness he saw reflected in Bill’s face. “But I tried to give some clue. The card is made up of three layers, Bill, not only the front and back, there are three pieces of card, my love. And,” he began to hurry, feeling pulled away, even as they sat together, as if a strong wind were tugging at him, and forcing Bill in the opposite direction. “I have been visited at every prison by the same man. At first he only talked, he wanted information from me, but he isn’t so clever as he thinks he is. Every scrap of information I learned from him I wrote down, every clue to the German army’s movements, their tactics, their plans. Can you pass it on to Charlie for me?” He glanced across to where his friend had been lying in the grass a moment before but he was no longer there, indeed the grass itself was fading, losing its sharpness like a chalk drawing being washed away by the rain. “I don’t know how much use it will be,” he continued, suddenly feeling desperately tired, his body aching to stay in the circle of Bill’s arms. “He gave up talking to me. We tried to escape the hospital... they wanted to sedate me, because of my leg... I couldn’t trust him. And now... this place... I am so sorry.”_

_Slowly, with such tenderness that it seemed to crush his heart, Bill caressed his cheek and wiped away the single tear that had escaped his burning eyes. Bill leant in close, kissing the corners of Will’s mouth delicately, lovingly, his full lips so soft against Will’s dry ones, and more tears began to fall, a cascade that he suddenly could not stop. Bill kissed him properly then, through the tears, his hands gently cupping Will’s face as he poured forth his love._

_“Don’t be sorry,” Bill sighed when they eventually parted. “I love you. I’ll find the message. I’ll find you. My husband. My dearest. My William.”_

_He bowed his head, pressed one last kiss to Will’s dry lips, and was gone._

_~_

_August 13th, 1915_  
_German work camp_

Will was returned to full wakefulness by a sudden fit of coughing, his body rattling like an ill-maintained machine gun as he fought to catch his breath in the frigid air. Someone called his name but it seemed far off, as if his ears had been filled with thick, swirling fog.

“Bill?” he croaked, trying to see around him but struggling in the dim light, “Bill?” A figure moved forward through the shadows and he tried to focus his eyes on them but they were streaming and all he saw was a tall shadow above him. The veldkornet is coming, a sinister voice whispered in his head, causing a surge of panic that sent him lurching forward. Tell him nothing, he shall beat you either way. “Charlie?” he called desperately, his voice rough and strange sounding in his ears. “Bill?”

The figure moved suddenly closer and he flinched, but their palms were open to him, raised to calm, to show no danger, and Will sat forward in confusion, trying to gain his bearings in the dark. It wasn’t until they moved to sit beside him that Will saw that it wasn’t his friend, or his husband, as he had hoped.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Captain,” came the doctor’s quiet voice as his face swam in to focus in the darkness. “So very sorry. Your coughing woke me and I was worried. You shouldn’t be here, you should be in a hospital. I didn’t mean to get you mixed up in our plan,” he huffed. “Didn’t mean to get you sent out here.”

Dr. Soorjo winced as William began to cough again, but Will waved him off as he fought to control the spasms in his throat. He wanted to tell the poor man, again, that it wasn’t his fault, that he had asked to come with them of his own free will, and that it hadn’t been either of their faults that the escape had failed, but his chest was shaking too painfully for him to speak, and the man never believe him in any case.

“You didn’t get me sent out here, Alfred,” he said when the fit of coughing had passed. “I’m a grown man, capable of making my own foolish mistakes, and besides,” he wheezed with a thin smile. “The German’s got me sent out here, not you. I was already a prisoner. And this place has nothing on Wittenberg. There are beds here for a start.”

He watched the young doctor shake his head wearily. They had only been at the work camp for two weeks but it felt more like a year. The plan seemed to be to work them all to death but the joke was on them really, Will liked to think, when he had the time for thought, because Death had apparently decided that she didn’t want Will, no matter what sickness of injury befell him. He hadn’t been allowed to die, even when he’d wanted to, and now he was a coughing, limping mess of a man, and of next to no use to anyone, and the Germans were stuck with him.

He had been so badly beaten in the failed escape that when he had arrived at the work camp one of the few other officers there had labeled him ‘the Monster’, and William couldn’t blame him for making the connection between his bruised and pock-marked visage and that of Frankenstein’s creature. Of course, poor Major Haley had been rather mortified when it became clear that the moniker was to be a permanent one, but Will had chosen not to take offence. Even Death thought him too damaged to claim and as he struggled through his days he certainly felt like dead flesh reanimated.

He wondered what Bill would think of him, so battered and broken and repulsive, but pulled his mind back from such thoughts. He had given up hope of returning home any time soon, no matter what he always put in his letters. There would be little chance to try for another escape from this place and seemingly no end to the damned war. He wasn’t likely to see Bill for some time, other than in his dreams, and his one consolation was that Bill at least hadn’t been dragged in to such horror, though sometimes, reading his husband’s words and running his fingers over the smudged pages, William did wonder.

His brain looked for clues these day whether he willed it to or no and he would almost swear that Bill’s writing suggested something more. It was worrying but he didn’t often find himself with the time to ponder such things. The letters were all sent from Asphodel Meadows and while the envelopes were clean and neatly typed the paper within was always smudged and heavily handled. It made him wonder, and those thoughts and fears made their way in to his dreams.

His latest dream was already slipping away from him, leaving behind in only the memory of Bill’s lips on his, a promise to find him, to rescue him, as if such a thing could be achieved. Of course, Will thought bitterly, he wouldn’t put it past his superiors to have recruited Bill and convinced him to carry on the farce that he was still safely at home in order for the letters to reach him in prison. It was underhanded and cruel, with little real use to anyone, which was an exact description of the British command. And it also meant that Bill could well be in a trench somewhere, a thought that was both terrifying and a singular reason to carry on living, and a reason to keep on looking for a way out of captivity.

“They’ll be getting us up for roll call soon,” Alfred sighed tiredly, rubbing at his eyes and looking deeply concerned when William was wracked by another fit of painful coughing. “If you live that long.”

“I’ll live,” Will wheezed. He had to live. He needed to write another letter to Bill and he needed to get out of the damned prison.

After the two failed attempts at escape in his first month of confinement, and the near successful escape of the previous month, Will knew he would be watched closely by his captors, if only because they had been ordered to. They mostly looked upon him with distain as he shuffled out, following the line of Allied prisoners, and tried to avoid his coughing as much as they could, but he wasn’t considered a real threat, and even if a rifle was trained on his back at all times he knew he looked pitiable. He barely had the strength to wield a shovel, never mind overpowering a guard, and he wondered, as he dug, how he could use such weakness to his advantage.

They were fortifying the German defences, preparing for a new offensive, and even though he couldn’t be sure of his location, Will guessed himself to be near Verdun. He had learnt from the officer who had interrogated him that Verdun was to be a future point of interest and felt strangely vindicated to see that he had discovered the truth, though he knew it was a null point since he had been unable to do much with the information. He wondered whether Bill had been able to guess at his hidden message, whether he had discovered the secret missive within the postcard detailing all he had learnt from his captors, and the other, even more secret letter hidden between the sheets of card, his letter of love.

It had been a huge risk, writing such words and daring to send them, and he could put such actions down to his illness, to being feverish and near delirious at the time of writing, but he could not regret doing so. Writing to Bill as if there was nothing between them but friendship, the relationship of an employer and his estate manager, was killing him faster than the festering wound in his leg or the infection in his lung, and so he had poured forth his heart on the back of the official card before adding the piece detailing his gathered intelligence and then, finally, the photograph taken of him in the hospital. He hoped that Bill had found it; he hoped that Bill knew how much he loved him.

They dug for hours, the work as monotonous as it was back-breaking, and sky was darkening before they were ordered to stop and set marching back toward the camp, and with the night came the return of Will’s coughing, his chest reacting to the cold air and earning him a harsh look from several of the guards.

“My apologies,” he told the guard closest to him, and watched the man blink in surprise at being addressed in such fluent German. “It’s the cold air, I meant no disrespect.”

He smiled, trying to seem non-threatening, and watched the young man’s cheeks colour slightly as he nodded and looked away. Some of the men who guarded them were harsh and cold, but others were more easily manipulated with kind words and a gentle manner and Will decided, as he shuffled through to the mess hall with the other exhausted prisoners, that gaining a reputation for himself as a man who posed no threat would be his best chance at freedom, or at least survival.

“Thank you,” he said as he was handed his meagre meal, which earned him another surprise look, and a smile, and he gave a small smile in return. A day ago he had felt hopeless, abandoned by his country, by life itself, but now he felt determined to stay alive again. Even as he was overtaken with coughing, the force of it enough to send his back in to dreadful spasms, he refused to give in to the depression that had been creeping over him. He had a husband to get home to, he told himself again. He had a husband, a lover to keep safe and return to, and a life beyond war and dirt.


	18. Chapter 18

February 29th 1901  
Cape Colony,   
South Africa

“Willie,” Charlie shook him vigorously, his rough fingers pulling at the damaged skin of his shoulder and back, pulling him out of sleep no matter how hard he fought against it. “Willie! Wake up old chap, it’s time to go!”

“What’s wrong?” Will slurred, his brain reacting to the panic and excitement in his friend’s voice, though his eyes stayed firmly shut, refusing to give in to the demand that he leave the safety and warmth of his dreams - of Bill’s smile, Bill’s eyes, Bill’s hands sliding over his shoulders as he leaned in for a kiss. He tried to force them, rubbing his knuckles in to his eyes as he’d used to do as a child before his mother insisted he give up such immature behaviours, but it was still an effort and when he’d finally dragged them open his vision was blurred and all he could see was the hazy outline of his friend in the flickering light. “What’s happened?” 

“Nothing yet, dear,” Charlie huffed with the barest smile on his lips, helping him to sit up, his fingers again digging in to Will’s skin with too much force, flooding his mind and body with pain. “But we need to be ready. It’s nearly time. For Bill, remember Willie?”

At that William snapped in to wakefulness, pushing himself up despite the protestations of his damaged back. He still felt confused and nauseous, his body rebelling at the movement and the early hour, but he needed to hear what Charlie had to say, even if it seemed to make no sense. Charlie didn’t know Bill, couldn’t know Bill, which meant that he was either dreaming or had missed something of the most vital importance.

“That was a dream, surely?” he asked, blinking until his vision was finally clear. “Bill’s not really here, is he? He can’t be here.”

Charlie gave him an odd sort of smile. Will would have called it melancholy if that made a jot of sense. Charlie had always been carefree and confident, jolly and straightforward. Melancholy wasn’t an emotion he’d worn often, wasn’t an emotion that suited him. It was the light playing tricks Will decided instead. The sun didn’t seem to have risen yet and the lamp Charlie carried was casting strange shadows across the tent. He looked older than ever before, harried and weathered. The prison camp, Will remembered suddenly. They were prisoners. Which meant that Bill’s being there was even less likely, and even more dangerous.

He skin prickled, flushing hot as he realised how close he’d come to outing himself, and his throat tightened until he worried he’d bring up the meagre food in his stomach, all over his friend and the shirt he was holding out to cover Will’s blistered skin. He looked up, trying to breathe through the mounting panic, but all he saw was Charlie’s tired eyes and mournful expression. He gave his friend a pleading look and Charlie eventually relented and gave Will’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. 

“I’m not sure about the Bill in your dreams old boy,” he said softly, “but the one who accosted me last night with a plan to break us out of here was real enough. Please tell me you remember?”

Will tried to recall what Charlie had said to him the night before but it was next to impossible to separate what had actually been spoken and what might have been a dream. He shook his head and felt guilt and embarrassment seep through the fog of his mind at the disappointment he saw in his friend’s tired face. 

His days had quickly become a blur since arriving at the Boer camp and he’d given up focusing on anything other than staying alive as best he could. Charlie had tried valiantly to keep him sane, talking to him, comforting him, making sure that he had water and food, but Will feared it was a lost cause. The veldkornet seemed to think he was some sort of nut to be cracked, had even said that he had great respect for William and his ability to hold his secrets under such duress, a statement which made Will weep even to think of. He had given up telling the man that he had no secrets, the veldkornet refused to believe him and didn’t hide his delight at beating Will until he was a bloody mess of stripes and sunburn. There had been times when he had thought to make something up, or offer other information in exchange for some reprieve, but had learnt quickly that there was little point. Instead he repeated the same phrases over and over to himself, until he could think of nothing else: there is nothing to tell, give nothing away, cede no control, show nothing, reveal nothing, stay silent, there is nothing. 

“The other men are ready, Willie, do come along,” Charlie urged him, shaking his shoulder and drawing attention to the fact that he had dressed Will and buttoned his bloodstained shirt for him. “We’re all set. We’re finally going to be free of this place. The explosives are laid beneath the wall right beside the Boer barracks, according to your Bill. With any luck the blast will take half of them out before they have time to get out of bed and this whole thing will be as straight forward as we can make it. We outnumber them after all, the only advantage they have is weapons and I’ve charged some of the lads with the task of raiding the munitions store once the action begins. Come on now, Willie, do wake up. Freedom, remember? We’re going to get out of here.”

“You always were rubbish at strategy,” Will slurred, pulling himself upright and gripping Charlie’s lapels hard as he swayed on his feet sickeningly, but Charlie only grunted and held him steady, his hands on Will’s waist. 

“Well what would you do then?” he snapped, withdrawing his hands and showing more anger than Will had seen from him since his arrival at the camp. “I may not be as brilliant as you, Willie, god knows I’m aware of that! But I’m doing my best. And it’s the best plan we’ve got. It’s the only plan we’ve got! That boy of yours out there may be half mad but at least he’s doing something. What else can we do, Willie? Tell me?” He spat the words through gritted teeth, grabbing a handful of Will’s filthy shirt in his hand as if he meant to shake him, his cheeks flushed and eyes watering, and Will stumbled against the cot as it struck the back of his knees, his mind suddenly blank with terror at such a demand. 

“There’s nothing to tell, give nothing away, say nothing,” Will mumbled automatically, in response to the harsh tone. “Nothing. There’s nothing.” He wanted to cower, to pull away, but it was Charlie who blanched at the words, pulling back as if burned, and Will tried desperately to claw his way back from such spiraling fears as he saw his friend’s reaction. The man before him, his closest friend, looked horrified as he released Will’s shirt and stepped back, mumbling an apology, but still Will struggled to keep his mind from slipping. He was so tired and couldn’t remember what he’d done to make Charlie so cross. “Sorry. Sorry,” he panted, looking away, trying to avoid the stares of the other men. So many men, so close, and staring, when all he wanted to do was hide himself away. “Sorry, Charlie-boy. You’re right, it’s... it’s our best shot. Explosives, you say? Good, good. Shame we don’t have Bill here, he’s a dab hand with that sort of thing.”

Charlie sighed but Will didn’t have the energy to ask what was wrong. He stumbled as Charlie led him through the tent toward the entrance and tried not to feel or look so much like an abandoned child when Charlie handed him to one of the other prisoners in order to take up a position at the front of the group by the tent flap. They had no weapons, Will registered vaguely, and were underfed and sunburnt, and most of the men around him seemed terrified and confused, but Charlie was too far away for him to voice his concerns, and so he waited, and wondered where his shoes had gone.

The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly as they stood together at the end of the tent and Will found himself trying to figure out what they were waiting for. Slowly but surely the men around him began to fidget and whisper, growing restless, and Will wondered what exactly they were doing, waiting there by the entrance when the guard hadn’t even appeared to yell at them all to get up. He heard a man whisper, angrily it seemed to Will, that they’d been set up and would all end up hanged, but he was hurriedly shushed and Will turned back to look at Charlie, at the determined set of his jaw, the nervous darting of his eyes. He couldn’t recall why they were there, what was going on, or why Charlie looked so serious, but didn’t have a chance to wonder because at that moment the ground suddenly leapt up to meet him.

The air shook, rumbling loudly, too loudly, and the men around him began to shout, some in fear, some in excitement, but Will only wanted to run, to hide, to throw himself to the ground and at the mercy of whatever had caused such thunder. Instead he found himself dragged toward the blast, carried along by the tide of men rushing forward. His feet hurt. His toes were being stubbed on the hard dirt, and the boots of the men around him were leaving bruises, but he could not fight against the movement forcing him forward until he was out of the tent, alone in the night.

The yard, when he looked around himself, was in chaos, and he stumbled, falling to the ground as the other prisoners ran on ahead without him. There was smoke rising in the air and flame was fast enveloping the newly built barracks. He wondered if the men were upset at having their work destroyed when they had only just completed the building but none were rushing forward to save or salvage it. Behind it the wall was in ruins, as if it had collapsed in on itself, or been swallowed by the ground, and William felt panic hit him at such a thought. The Boer were running, shouting, screaming, Will heard someone yell for water, but the prisoners had other ideas. He was vaguely aware of Charlie, wielding a shovel, running toward the men who had held them captive, and then of the sound of machine gun fire, somewhere in the distance. He tried to stand but another blast sounded and he saw a second Boer building go up in flames.

And then he heard it, the whoop of delight, in a voice that seemed painfully familiar, even though Will knew it couldn’t be so. The sky filled with dust and smoke, obscuring his vision as he searched, and he felt his mind begin to drift, even as he heard a voice, Charlie’s he thought, screaming at him to stand up, to run, to head for the break in the wall. Instead Will’s body refused to cooperate. His mind balked at the very idea of going toward such fire and destruction, and he pressed his forehead to the dust. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and so curled himself up as small as he was able and closed his eyes, rocking as his fingers dug in to what was left of his arms, repeating to himself that there was nothing, nothing, nothing to tell, nothing to show - nothing.

~

Bill whooped as he clamboured over the broken wall and slid down the cascade of rubble in to the camp, just in time to see what was left of the second building go up in flames. He scanned the scene for any sign of Will but couldn’t find him. Knowing his William he was likely at the centre of the action, Bill reasoned, which meant that the action was where Bill needed to be as well, and he grinned wide at the thought of paying back the men who had stolen his happiness. His attention was caught by the sight of several of the British prisoners exiting a third building, their arms laden with weapons, and Bill made a beeline for them, keeping his eyes pealed for the enemy as he went. There seemed to be few around, but as he entered the centre of the camp a man ran toward him, pistol raised, and Bill cocked his rifle quickly and took the man out, adrenaline rushing through him like a firecracker and making him giggle. He shot another as he arrived at the munitions store, recognising the man as one who had guarded the prisoners who went out in the work parties. He didn’t have time to feel remorse, didn’t have time to think about sparing the men who had taken his lover prisoner, and when he got inside the small munitions hut he grabbed as many grenades and rounds of ammunition as he could carry. 

Back out in the yard the world seemed to have descended in to chaos and Bill struggled to pick out which men were enemy and which were prisoners. The Boer all seemed to be in a state of undress, caught unaware by the attack, whilst the British had the look of men half starved and fighting with all they had. Some faces he recognised as men he’d seen in the work parties, but he couldn’t see the officer he’d met the day before, Charlie, and he couldn’t see the one face he was truly searching for, the face that had haunted him both sleeping and waking for what seemed like an age. 

Will had to be there somewhere, Charlie had confirmed it, had said with certainty, truthfully, that William was there at the camp, had said he was alive, even if he wasn’t doing well, but no matter how Bill searched, circling the whole yard, he couldn’t see him. He took out another five men and sent grenades spiraling in to several buildings before he looked across the smoking, grey, compound and saw a figure hunched over by the metal post that he’d first seen Will chained to. It hardly looked like a man - it was a crouched, rocking, broken thing, barefoot and dressed in a ragged, stained shirt - but somehow Bill knew that it was his William and he felt a pain in his heart worse than any a bullet or bayonet could cause. He took a step forward but there was a shout to the right of him, and he turned to see a large machine gun being wheeled from another small shed by several Boer soldiers. 

 

Bill bit his lip hard, torn and unable to decide on a course of action. He needed to stop them. A weapon like that could end the prisoners’ uprising and see them all hanged and he seemed to be the only one close enough to take it out. But he also needed to get to Will, an instinct with overrode all else. He couldn’t bear to see the man in such a wretched state, and found himself running forward before his brain could catch up, ignoring the powerful weapon at his back, wondering if he would regret his actions.

“Will,” he called breathlessly, falling to his knees as he reached the spot and grabbing the man’s face in his ruined hands, trying to raise him up, to see that it was indeed him, but no matter what he did he couldn’t seem to convince his William to unfold himself. “Will, please! It’s me! We’ve got to get you out of here, love. We’ve got to get you out! Please! Oh, I knew I’d find you,” he rambled on, pressing his face in to the filthy curls and kissing the sweat soaked forehead. “I’ll always find you, Will, always. You’re mine. I’m yours. I’ll always know how to find you, always keep you safe, love. Gods, I’ve missed you. Will? Please, love?” The sun was beginning to rise as William looked up and Bill’s breath was stolen as the light caught the gold and green in his lover’s eyes. His face was worn, lined deep with fear, the skin peeling and lips cracked, and he seemed confused at Bill’s appearance, unsure of where he was and what was going on around him. Bill laughed, his fingers disappearing in the scruff and stubble that had overtaken Will’s jaw, relief crashing through him as he finally saw that his love really was alive. “Oh, it’s you, it’s you,” he whispered. “And you’re alive. Just. Come on now, dearest,” he urged, “let’s get you out of here. Come on.”

“What...” Will looked at him muzzily as Bill tugged him upright, his body a jumble of uncooperative bones, his skin like fine tissue paper under Bill’s roughened hands. “What are you doing here, Mullen? You shouldn’t be here. You need to get back to your unit. You’ll get in trouble.”

“Fucksake, Will, I’m rescuing you,” Bill huffed in disbelief, pulling Will’s arm over his shoulder as he began to drag him away from the centre of the yard. A new kind of panic was building in his chest at the way Will didn’t seem to recognise the seriousness of their situation. The relief he’d felt only moments ago was distant and it was a struggle to get Will to walk let alone run, even as a stream of bullets bit in to the earth only a few feet away. He didn’t even seem pleased that Bill had come to rescue him. “Bloody hell, what d’you think I’m doing here?

“Language, Corporal,” Will slurred, slipping in Bill’s grasp just as tears began to slip down his cheeks. “There may be ladies present.”

The harsh rattle of machine gun fire just above their heads caused them both to stumble and Bill pressed William flat to the dirt with a hand on the back of his neck for good measure until the round had finished before again dragging him forward by his shirt to a stack of lumber that had fallen in front of the closed camp gates. He had to get Will out - that was the objective, that was the goal - but they couldn’t get out that way, not on their own, the fallen wood had jammed the gate. The only way would be to head for the blast site, where he’d first climbed in, but Bill couldn’t seem to get his bearings. The light had gone from predawn grey to piercing bright within a minute and he sobbed desperately as he pulled Will to safety; manhandling him roughly in his haste for Will didn’t seem to care about moving himself.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, and indulge in the panic and frustration that was burning him from the inside out, Bill took a chance and looked out above the lumber. The Boer forces seemed mostly neutralised but it was hard to tell. He supposed the prisoners knew who they were aiming for, who was ‘bad’ and who was ‘good’ but Bill couldn’t tell who was who. Worse still, none of them knew Bill and he worried that if he tried to leave the relative safety of the wood pile he’d end up shot by both sides. He still had a few grenades left, he thought, he could try taking out the last Boer machine gun still firing, which would improve their chances of survival and let the British prisoners know he was on their side. His uniform was too filthy and torn for them to recognise him by that but there was a slight chance that revealing himself long enough to take out the last of the Boer would ensure his safety. 

He hadn’t really thought the logistics of his plan through when he’d spoken to Charlie, or when he’d been digging, he’d just needed to get to Will and get him out, and that was still his primary objective. He tried to think of a plan to get to the opening in the wall but was distracted when Will began talking to himself and waving his hands as if under attack by a swarm of bees, and so ducked back down, knuckling the tears from his eyes at the sight of the broken man before him.

“Shit, Will, are you delirious?” he called over the renewed sound of gunfire, trying to block out the sounds that seemed to be growing louder all around them, and the deep, cold, fear within his chest.

“No, sir,” Will replied, giving him a sudden, sharp look. “I am British.”

Bill felt the laughter bubble out of him uncontrollably, though there was nothing really funny about their situation. “And where d’you think you are, Will?” he asked as gently as he could, his heart breaking at what had become of the man he held so dear.

“School?” came the wavering reply, and Bill bit his lip, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t clever enough to deal with this sort of thing, but he had to get Will out, nothing else mattered, he just needed Will to be safe. Despite that repeated assertion his brain still struggled to give him answers he spent a minute choking back his tears before he was able to think clearly.

“Alright,” he decided eventually. “Yeah, we’re at school. What was that game you used to play there, Will? The one you told me you were best at?”

“Capture the flag?” Will offered hopefully, his eyes still unfocused, his shirt where Bill’s hand rested against his shoulder damp with blood, though Bill had no idea what injuries he’d sustained or when. 

“Yeah, good,” he nodded instead. “We’re playing capture the flag. You’re the best at capture the flag, aren’t you dearest. So, I need you to get over to that pile of stones over there, can you do that for me? You get over those stones, you get outside the wall, you look for the flag, okay? It’s somewhere on the other side of the wall. I’ll join you as soon as I can, and Charlie will too. You remember your old friend, Charlie? From school?” Will nodded. “Good, well you get over those rocks and over that wall and then you wait for us, okay? We’ll get the flag together. I just have to finish up a few things here, alright?”

“I...” William wavered, a glimmer of true understanding surfacing in his eyes for a moment. “I love you.”

Bill held his breath but the light sank down again, leaving Will’s eyes misted and uncertain, and he wrapped his arms around his lover as gently as he could, careful of the man’s back, before pulling back to kiss his forehead tenderly. 

“I know dearest,” he whispered. “I love you too. And you’ve done so bloody well. And it’s nearly over now, alright? You just need to get to those stones, and up and over, okay? Up and over.”

“Toward that bloody sun,” Will slurred, frowning toward the light and Bill smiled even as the tears began to overwhelm his eyes once again.

“That’s right, dear one. Toward that bloody awful sun.”

“And capture the flag,” Will nodded and Bill tried to smile back at him reassuringly through his tears before swinging his rifle around and peaking above the stack of lumber to cover the man’s exit.

“Go now, Reeves,” he ordered, not looking back as he fired off a few shots at the huddle of determined men across the yard. “Go now!”

He heard the scrabble of Will’s bare feet as he began to crawl, even over the ringing that had started up in his ears, and then drew a grenade from his belt, judging the distance. He needed to be higher, he realised, and climbed to the top of the pile, exposing his position completely as he did so. The Boer saw him, but from that position so did Charlie and his small band of men, and Bill saluted before throwing the grenade directly at the Boer machine gun, destroying it utterly.

He laughed in triumph, sounding delirious himself now, but too pleased at having defeated their foe to really care. His whole body was shaking with the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins, his eyes locked on the blossoming fire ball he had caused. He turned to admire the fire that was beginning to dwindle where the Boer barracks had once stood, and the destroyed wall, physical manifestations of his rage and his love, and then, glowing joyfully, he turned further to check on Will’s progress. He was at the rubble, climbing slowly and awkwardly, but doggedly nevertheless, and Bill’s pride grew. 

But as he moved to follow his lover there was a sudden moment of thickest silence - a second of pressure as if the very world were being squeezed and he was frozen in place as if within ice - before the wooden gate behind him exploded outwards, and threw him across the yard. He was unconscious before Charlie reached him, Will not far behind, wailing at what had been done, and a moment later the British forces appeared in the shattered entrance of the Boer camp, weapons at the ready, and far too late.


	19. Chapter 19

3rd September. 1915  
Western Front,  
France

Bill lit a match, breathing deep and biding his time as he slouched against the damp haunch of the bridge, focusing on the flame to sooth his cracked and broken fortitude. It hadn’t been easy, getting to the bridge Charlie had insisted needed to be blown. It had required a huge amount of careful planning and a secret trip across enemy lines and Bill’s nerves had been buzzing for hours until he was sure he’d be shaken apart by them. Sneaking in to enemy territory on his own to blow something was just a little too familiar, and made him feel a little too vulnerable, but there was no way to say no, not when Charlie had such faith in him. Especially when Charlie had been trying so hard to find Will, and had narrowed down his location to three possible work camps that were all relatively close to their current location. 

He closed his eyes, calmed his mind, and then sent it searching. It had become a habit, especially when he was stressed and tired and homesick and so lonely it hurt beyond measure, to reach out to his Will, his dear William, to see if he could sense him - to see if he still lived. Some days he worried he could feel nothing, that there was no sign of Will at all, and on those days he wanted to weep. Other times he was sure he felt something, even if it wasn’t much, he was sure there was a spark, a soul connecting with his, even if it was faint. It was easier when he was asleep, then he found himself deep in dreams of far more pleasant days, with Will by his side. 

The night before he’d found himself back at the Cape, licking the sweat from William’s youthful, concave stomach, talking about ridiculous dreams and ideas for the future, learning each others hearts and wants, giggling and shaking with love and adoration and lust. Will had shushed him, covered his mouth to stop his moaning, even as he’d driven him to the heights of ecstasy, and Bill had reveled in the memory, even as he’d felt the mounting worry that sat behind it, an echo of sadness, something that hadn’t been there the first time around, when they’d actually lived through those golden days.

He let the match die between his fingers and then flicked it in the river, his fingers itching for a different kind of addiction, and he reached carefully in to his coat to retrieve the small piece of card, turning it over from the side bearing Will’s official letter, to the secret love note on the back. He’d discovered it three weeks before along with the secret, third layer of card on which Will had written the secrets he had learned from his captors. Bill had gladly passed that along, if only to see the look on the harried face of his captain when he announced he had secret intelligence to pass along to Major Ainsley and Colonel White, and that he could not divulge where it had come from. The man was sick of him, and had been more than happy to have Bill sent off on his current dangerous mission, but Bill didn’t care. The captain was little more than a boy, trying to gain the notice of his superiors in order to secure a safer position. It was easy to forget, down in the tunnels and mines, that the majority of the soldiers above ground were barely old enough to drink. The erstwhile captain certainly looked like a man in need of a night in a pub with a decent ale and Bill huffed out a breathe that may have been a laugh as he dismissed the thought and turned his full attention to the letter.

Will’s writing was so small that some words had been hard to make out at first, but Bill had read it and re-read it often enough to know it by heart, just as he had done with all of Will’s letters, and found himself calmed by the words, and the love that they poured forth, even if they brought tears to his eyes without fail every time he read them.

To my dearest William, my Bill,  
My husband, my life, my heart, my love, I cannot continue living without giving voice to how dearly I miss you and love you, even if it is only on this small square of card. Every day without you is painful to me, a pain worse than any of the physical injuries or illnesses I have ever suffered. I love you.  
I miss you most ardently and wish I was at liberty to carry a photograph of you as some men do their wives. I wish I had never left your side, had never put the needs of lords and politicians and colonels above yours. Would that I could go back in time and worship you the way you deserve to be worshipped. I would kiss every inch of your skin, would not be put off even by my own blushes and embarrassment. By every god in the heavens and stars in the sky how I love you!  
I do so hope that you know that I do, that I do love you, wholeheartedly and with my entire being. Even so I needed to write this to you, to tell you, even if it is my undoing it needed to be said. I shall take pains to hide this but I do so hope that you find it. You are so clever, my Bill, I know you will figure it out. I am so tired of secrets, dearest, so tired of my own fear of them, of who I am being known. I am done with all of it, if I was only at liberty to hand in my notice and turn my back on war and politics. There is no joy in working for a government, being loyal to a government, when they would consider me sinful and illegal if they actually knew me. I am tired of it. I am tired, my love.   
I love you, Bill. My life was so very dull and without hope when we met, I was sure then at the age of twenty-one, that I would live and die alone and unloved, for who could love me? But you transformed my life in to the most marvelous adventure and I am eternally grateful, and eternally smitten. You have saved me in so many ways.  
I hope to live to one day see you smile at me again, so full of delight and mischief, and to hear your laughter. I miss you so terribly, love you so fiercely.   
My husband I love you. I hope that you are safe, that you are well, that you have been spared the ugliness of this war. You are the only hope I have left.  
Farewell my dearest, until we meet again at Asphodel, in this world or the next.  
Your William.

Bill sniffed to cover the fact that the tears had returned, even as his heart was settled by the glorious honesty of William’s letter, and then huffed at his own silliness, for there was no one nearby to see how he was affected. He was alone, though that truth held its own dangers. Sergeant Evans was a few miles off, at the second bridge, and the third had been left to two new lieutenants that had been assigned to their regiment, and Bill tried not to think about the fact that there were so few of his original unit left, so few men that he recognised. Every unit that arrived at their line seemed to be made up of younger and younger men and it was killing him to know that so many lives had ended so brutally, so senselessly, and so before time. 

He checked the sky instinctively but the sun was hidden behind a blanket of tarnished cloud and he couldn’t guess at how long he’d been sat there. What he wanted, more than anything, was to just light the fuse and blow the damned thing and run like hell back to the rendezvous point before he was found by the German forces which, he’d been reminded several times during the briefing, were all around and would like as not shoot first and ask questions later. His nerves were jumping and fingers itching for flame and fire, and he knew it was getting worse, the longer he was working with the Engineers the worse the need to play with fire was getting, quite literally, and the urge to go against orders and run off to find Will and blow the world to hell was getting beyond his control. But instead he clenched his teeth against his desires and glanced at the pocket watch he’d been given, cursing softly when he realised he still had half an hour to wait. 

The roar of an engine on the road above him brought his heart in to his mouth with such violence he thought he’d vomit it up, and the screech of tires and sudden clunk of a motorbike coming off the road was unmistakable. Bill was halfway up the embankment before he realised what he was doing, and he reached the top in time to see a young, German, soldier pick himself up with a groan and begin struggling with his bike, which seemed determined not to start.

The kid noticed Bill a moment or two after he’d spotted the kid and he saw immediately the panic and fear in the young soldier’s eyes. He gave up trying to kick his bike in to life and reached for his pistol, the fear growing as his hand came away empty. The tension in the air was as thick as the mud underfoot and Bill tucked his own weapon out of sight at the small of his back. He could use this kid and had no desire to send him running just yet.

“Mechaniker!” he called out, holding his hands out from his body as he slowly approached, still keeping to the undergrowth in case there were more enemy troops approaching on the road. 

The kid looked rightly suspicious but Bill had seen the flash of hope that had crossed his face first at the word spoken in his own tongue. Bill didn’t know much German but he knew enough, mostly thanks to William who would slip in to the accent and then language of wherever he was visiting at least a day before he was due to go off on one of his “diplomatic house calls” as he’d used to call them. Thanks to him, Bill could say the word mechanic in at least three other languages, as well as a few key phrases. He’d never thought they would come in handy, had used to curse the man out for making it more difficult to read his lips because his mouth moved differently when his accent changed, but now he was grateful, and had to fight to keep the smile from creeping on to his lips.

“Don’t come closer,” the kid eventually stammered in English when Bill was a few feet away, his hand once again going for his gun and finding his holster empty. The revolver he was seeking was lying in the mud by his feet but Bill didn’t intend to point that out to him, not yet.

“Mechaniker,” Bill repeated. He was tempted to soften his tone to calm the boy down but knew that his age, his build and his general gruffness gave him an advantage that he couldn’t afford to lose. “I can fix your bike.”

The young soldier seemed to consider the proposition for an achingly long time as they stood in the frigid air and Bill wished he could hurry the kid even though he knew it would definitely be the wrong thing to do. Not if the plan that was forming in his mind was going to work. 

“Alles klar dann,” he said eventually with a hurried nod and Bill nodded back before slowly taking the last few steps and settling himself down by the bike. 

It appeared to have nothing more than a slipped chain and he wondered at these mighty armies that allowed boys out on bikes they didn’t know how to fix in the field, but then, he mused darkly, they had no qualms about sending boys out to die in their thousands so it shouldn’t be a surprise that they skimped on this sort of training as well.

After a few thoughtful moments the kid squatted down beside him and Bill gave him a nod of approval. They were far less visible now. He angled his head so that his right ear was closer to the soldier when he realised he was about to speak but could barely hear the whispered words when they did come, especially with the thick accent. 

“Why would you help an enemy?” 

He was far too young. He was all spotty skin and razor-burnt chin and earnest, watery eyes and Bill wanted to tell him that the thing that had stayed his hand in the first moment after seeing the kid was because he had always hated killing in that way. It was too personal, he was too much of a coward, and killing scared boys with bullets turned his stomach. Thinking back to every time he’d killed still upset him, he’d done it too often, killed too many, and the older he grew the harder the task of justifying it became. But his German wasn’t that flash and the kid’s English was no better, so he settled for a shrug as he worked.

“Our governments are enemies,” he said plainly but there was more to it. He’d had an idea as he’d approached and he couldn’t walk away from this situation without at least trying. “I have no argument with you. I’m just looking for my friend. A prisoner. He was supposed to be at an officer’s camp but intelligence says he’s not.” He spoke slowly, hoping the boy at least got the gist of his words and when he looked up the mix of terror and sympathy he saw in the German’s eyes confirmed he had. “I need to know the closest work camp to here. And if there are any officers among the prisoners.”

“I cannot tell information,” the boy said. “They will kill me.”

Bill sighed. The bike was fixed, had barely been broken, and he needed to get back to work, but he couldn’t let it pass. The kid knew the information, he was just terrified of what would be done to him if it came out that he’d given it away to a Tommy. But he was also unarmed.

Bill pulled the gun quickly and pressed it to the kid’s temple, moving so fast there was barely time for the boy to register that a weapon was present before it was bruising his skin. Bill expected a fight but the kid wilted instead, there were tears spilling from his eyes, but Bill couldn’t give, not now. He just had to pray the kid didn’t call his bluff.

“Tell me what I need to know,” he ordered. “Tell me or I’ll bloody well end you.”

“Camp is only three kilometers past the line. Two officers are there, maybe. I have seen them, and a doctor,” he added shakily, probably hoping that Bill would spare him if there were proof of his intel. “One a Scot, short, ugly. Other is tall, very thin, brown hair, pock scarred. He walks with a limp and speaks German very well. He says thank you for his food.” The last remark was said with a strange tone, as if the kid could not understand such politeness in war, and as if it was a tale much repeated for its oddity. “The doctor is dark, like you.”

“A Scot, you say,” Bill asked, determined not give away his true intentions, not wanting to give any indication that he recognised the description of the doctor, or the thin, polite officer with the injured leg, but he took the gun away from the boy’s head. “The Scot, he’s ugly, you say? Ugly as a cow’s arse? Language just as foul?” It was a wild guess but the kid gave him a wavering smile of ascent and he feigned satisfaction as he moved back. He still kept his gun at the ready however, casually pointed at the boy’s chest as he stood and gave a quick grin. “Thanks, kid. You’ve been very helpful. The bike’s all set to go, and you never saw me, understand?” 

“Verstanden,” the boy replied, standing unsteadily and knuckling at his eyes. “Danke. And good luck with your friend.”

Bill watched the kid kick the bike in to life and speed off, the skin of his palm itching against the revolver. He could take a shot, but he wasn’t a great marksman, and didn’t want to risk drawing attention to himself. He didn’t want to kill the kid in any case. The idea was definitely in the boy’s head though, judging by the speed of his retreat and Bill cursed him softly as he took the bend too fast and had to overcorrect as he disappeared in to the trees. It shouldn’t matter. Some German soldier who couldn’t ride his bike wasn’t his problem, but he hoped the kid got back in one piece. He’d been incredibly helpful and Bill’s heart was singing as he crept back to the bridge. He checked his watch and grinned.

Moving with careful and deliberate movements, Bill hooked up the detonator, took twelve measured steps as he unspooled the cable, lit the end carefully, and then sprinted for a count of ten. The sound of the explosion was muted to his ears but on the other side of the river a German motorcycle suddenly doubled its speed at the tremendous sound, as if the devil himself were giving chase.

~

As a bullet missed him so narrowly he felt the breeze of its passing Bill wondered how everything had gone to hell so quickly. It was probably because he’d been so bloody confident and pleased with himself when he’d arrived back at the rendezvous point. He’d been the first to get there but Evans had been fast behind him and they’d thought everything had gone to plan, but the other two men had failed to appear, and they’d been forced to leave without them. Bill hadn’t been happy about it, neither had Evans, but there had been no real choice, they had already waited too long. 

The unexpected attack to the British line when they were still stuck in No-Man’s Land had turned the day from a bad one to an utter disaster and as the shells continued to fall and the bullets cut through the smoke and evening mist, Bill struggled to keep his bearings, and to control his rising emotions. He needed to get back, needed to survive, at least long enough to reach Charlie and tell him what he’d found out, about where Will was being held, and because if he were to die here, on a mission Charlie had sent him on, the man would never forgive himself, and Bill couldn’t be having that. 

Charlie had warned them all of the dangers, and they knew what they would be walking in to. Their timing had needed to be exact was the problem, to avoid the German patrols and the evening assault, but they’d left it too late, waiting for the two boys even after they knew they were probably dead. And now there was a chance it would cost both Bill and Evans’ their lives. 

“Good God, they’ve turned on the works for us!” Evans’ yelled as they slid down an embankment together. “I reckon they know we’re out here. What do you think gave us away?”

“Blowing up at least two of their bridges might’ve had something to do with it,” Bill called back, wincing as the ringing in his ear increased. “Or the fact that we never heard from the boys at the third bridge. Or possibly it was that German kid who spotted me on the road. To be honest, Sarge, things haven’t exactly gone to plan today.”

Evans turned toward him eyebrows raised higher than Bill thought was strictly necessary. “You were seen?” Bill felt his lip being tugged by a grin that he couldn’t stop, and Evans crawled toward him so that their shoulders were pressed hard against each other and he could know that Bill would actually hear him. “Why do I get the feeling that you let yourself be seen, Mullen? I’ve lost you in one of our own damn tunnels and I know that you have history of getting jobs done without being seen, so I’m thinking there is no sorry way in Hell that some Bosch caught you off guard. Even one ear short you’re sharper than most. So what happened? What have you been playing at?”

A shell blew close by and both men ducked for cover, but Bill couldn’t help but smile at his sergeant when they both emerged, covered in dust and dirt. “I’ve found the officers MI have been looking for, the prisoners who went missing and haven’t been properly filed. The kid gave me descriptions of at least three being held at the work camp closest to us. They’re alive, Sarge.”

He couldn’t blame the man for the skeptical look he gave Bill in reply to such news, Evans had no clue who the officers were, or what one of them meant to Bill, only that Bill had connections within Military Intelligence, and was in correspondence with a prisoner of war that MI wanted back.

“So, what?” Evans asked roughly. “You’re going to go off on another rescue mission? This isn’t the Boer, Mullen. This isn’t some small scale, territorial war. You aren’t going to be able to pull a fast one on these guys, and there’s no chance of slipping away either. They’re shooting deserters these days, you know that!”

Bill didn’t have an answer for that, and even if he wanted to argue on, he held his tongue as Evans shouted that it was time to move on. They were surely out of range of the guns now, they decided, and with any luck they’d be able to avoid the shelling by skirting even further around the front lines. The path they’d been instructed to take was useless, the German line had crept up from nowhere and Evans looked grim as they began to run, hunched over with rifles at the ready. He wasn’t a man who liked to improvise and Bill found himself running hard to keep up as Evans forged on despite the continued bombardment, determined to get back to their trench as quickly as possible. When the British line finally came in to view Evans gave a triumphant laugh and turned back to Bill, relief writ large on his face. He’d been promised leave once the mission was done, proper leave back at home with his family for the week, and Bill couldn’t help but feel some of that reflected joy.

But as he watched Evans’ body jolted violently, and his expression changed from delight to shock, blood erupting from his open mouth to hit Bill squarely in the face as he ran forward, catching the man as he fell. As they hit the ground, rolling in to a shell hole, the machine gun fire started up, coming from both sides, seeming impossibly close, even to Bill’s distorted hearing. A British bullet, Bill’s mind told him as he pressed his hands to Evans’ right side, trying to stem the bleeding, his body shaking so hard he immediately began to ache. From where they stood, from the angle and where it had hit, it could only have been a British bullet, and Bill wanted to run forward toward his own trench with his rifle cocked and ready. He wanted to shoot down the idiot who had shot his sergeant, his friend, when they were so close to safety, but he couldn’t follow his impulses, not when Evans was reaching out toward him and trying to speak.

“Mullen” Evans gasped, “Bill!” His hands were gripping Bill’s shoulders like talons as he fought against the encroaching darkness, clinging to Bill like he could avoid being taken. “Do something for me, won’t you, Bill?”

“Anything,” Bill whispered, pressing his own hands against the bubbling wound in the man’s lower lung, knowing it was useless but unable to give up while his sergeant was still breathing, still struggling so valiantly to live. “Anything. Fuck, sarge, whatever you want, just don’t die on me, alright?”

The older man chuckled, his lips wet with spittle, red with blood, his eyebrows reminding Bill ludicrously of two aggravated caterpillars as he drew them low over his eyes.

“Tell my wife how much I love her, that she was the light of my life, even in this dark hell. I don’t think I did it enough. Was too... too scared... to say I love you to the woman who brought me more happiness than I surely deserved.”

“I will,” Bill nodded. “But I’m sure she knows. You’ve written her enough bloody letters.”

Evans tried to laugh again at that but it quickly became a cough and Bill felt the blood ooze between his fingers, too much blood, moving too fast. He knew what would be coming next.

“Tell her all the same,” the sergeant ordered quietly, his grip on Bill’s coat slipping. “And tell your girl-”

“She’s not my girl,” Bill admitted in a rush, a sickening heat flushing through him. “She’s my sister, I’m sorry.”

Evan’s nodded. “I figured. But you tell her thank you, from me. My wife, my babies, they would’ve died if not for her, and God knows I wouldn’t have survived that. I couldn’t have survived that. So tell her thank you, for giving me that time with my family.”

“Course,” Bill agreed, his throat painfully tight. “Or you can tell her yourself, when we get free of this shit hole.”

Overhead another shell whizzed past, exploding barely ten feet away and covering them with a spray of dirt and shrapnel. Bill lifted his arm to protect himself but realised too late, when he heard Evans’ faint gasp, that the blood had begun pulsing furiously from the wound.

“I don’t think so, lad,” the man said weakly. “Don’t think I’ll get a chance for another letter, or a trip home. But make sure that you do, you hear me? I’m leaving a lot of little ‘uns behind and they’ll be needed an uncle to teach them right. And I reckon you’re just the man. Can you do that for me?”

Bill nodded as he watched the light begin to fade from Evans’ eyes, as his chest rattled one last time before going still. The blood ceased flowing and Bill removed his hands, holding them away from his body as if surrendering to death as it swept his friend away. He wanted to cry. He wanted to cry and scream and pound his fists against the broken earth, but his eyes were dry and there was no time to grieve properly. He wondered how he would be able to face the man’s widow, the man’s children, but knew that it would have to be done, if he lived to see the war’s end. 

He was surrounded by the sound of gunfire, explosions, fire and smoke, and he hated it. For the first time in his life he truly hated the smell of the gunpowder, the sight of the shells exploding, the roar of the flame. He wanted to go home, to be free of the pain and brutality of war, but knew it wasn’t going to happen, and so did the only thing he could think to do. He lifted his sergeant over his shoulder and ran toward the men who had so recently shot him, hoping he would make it to safety without meeting a similar end.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of blood, violence, death, mistreatment, stitches, mention of vomit

March 4th 1901  
Cape Colony,  
South Africa

Bill was aware that men had been speaking to him, or at him, at great length and probably at great volume, but he hadn’t been able to respond; he couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying. He’d woken in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar triage, with a bandage covering his left eye and half his face, but hadn’t had a chance to figure out where he was before he was manhandled in to an office, dressed only in a night shirt, and presented with several very angry officers. The only one of the lot that he recognised was Major White but the man didn’t come to his aid, Bill hadn’t expected him to. He’d watched their lips, unable to understand what they were saying but watching all the same - the spittle flying, the bared teeth - and it had been easy enough to guess what they were talking about. He hadn’t had a chance to speak in his own defense, and on the few occasions when the room full of men - puce cheeked, bug-eyed, chinless, men - had turned to him expectantly, he’d stumbled over his words, unable to hear himself and unsure of what they wanted to hear from him. His head had throbbed and the room had spun around him sickeningly as he tried to explain that he had followed the Boer trail believing that he owed it to his lieutenant, and that surely the Major would order a search within hours of his departure. 

White had looked ready to murder him and the hearing, for want of a better word, had been short. Bill felt that it almost definitely hadn’t gone well. He wasn’t surprised when he was dragged roughly away to a cell, even if it wasn’t the one he was used to. He had no room in his mind for surprise, or any other emotion. He let his body crumple when the hands released him, and fell on to the sorry excuse for a mattress that lay on the cell floor. His face was throbbing so badly he was sure his skull was splintering under the pressure and his head was filled with a thick, painful, silence, broken only by a distant ringing. He wanted to vomit but the bucket, the only other item in the cell, was just out of his reach and so he settled for covering his face with his hands, gently, to avoid the pain of his left side, and closed his eyes. The soldiers left him without a backward glance and Bill let his mind drift. He dozed, he woke, he cried out in pain at the throbbing of his injured face, the pain in his ear, and the pain of not knowing what had become of Will. 

He counted the days by the meals that were brought, slid through the hatch at the base of the door, and by the guard who came to remove the bucket, which he did eventually crawl to and vomit in to, for days on end, sure that he’d been forgotten and left to die. Four days had passed him by when the door eventually opened and an officer stood before him, a nurse hovering behind, the sight of their shoes enough to send panic flooding through Bill’s veins. He didn’t know what they intended to do to him but experience dictated that it wouldn’t be good. He had no allies in this place, it seemed. 

Bill kept his eyes down, he could hear a little by then, in his right ear, but still jumped whenever the door was opened or anyone entered his line of sight, and knew he wouldn’t be able to understand which ever white man had come to interrogate him or yell at him. He was aware of a mumbling above him, the scrape of boots on the rough floor, but couldn’t hear much more, especially when the pain spiked in his left ear, sharp enough that his hand came up to clutch at the damp bandage, an action that became defensive when the nurse knelt beside him and tried to touch his face. 

She spoke, Bill was sure she did, and he turned toward her, heart beating so hard that his entire chest ached, and felt tears spring to his eyes at the sympathy he saw in her face. He moved his hand to give her access to the injury, and tangled his hands in the fabric of the nightshirt instead, watching warily, unable to trust her, despite her gentle movements. She began to remove the bandage from around his head slowly, wincing when the gauze stuck to his skin and stitches, and Bill grimaced, the throbbing and heat of his face increasing until he groaned through his clenched teeth at the last tug of the bandage. He jumped when the officer knelt down beside the nurse, raising his arms to protect himself, not even caring that he had been reduced to a whimpering mess, but no beating came, and he looked up when the voice reached him, muffled and distorted, but not unkind. 

“God, you really are just a boy. Willie was right. I didn’t realise before. Couldn’t see past the dirt, couldn’t see... You’re too young to even be here. And what have they done to you? They couldn’t even give you some proper clothes. Have they fed you? Can you even hear me?”

Bill glanced up. He didn’t recognise the voice exactly, and the man, when he finally met his eyes, didn’t look the way he remembered. “Charlie?”

The smile gave him the answer and Bill tried to imagine the man without his starched uniform and slicked hair and cleanly shaven face. It was him, Bill supposed, the friend of Will’s, the prisoner who’d helped him survive when he was digging his tunnel. He reached out to touch, just to make sure the man was real - he had been visited by too many ghosts over the last few days - and ran his hand down the wool of the officer’s coat, hissing as his roughened fingertips caught in the threads, tugging his hand back quickly when he reached the insignia and rank and realised what he was doing.

“Sorry, sir,” he tried to say, but his own voice sounded odd and he looked away, focusing on the stained bandage the nurse held in her delicate, pale hands. He was aware that it was the bandage from his head, the one that had covered his left ear and eye and half of his face and scalp, but couldn’t process exactly what it had been for, what injuries he had sustained, or how it had become stained such a foul yellow. “I’m sorry, Captain...” he attempted again, hesitating when he realised that he didn’t know how to address the man properly now that they were back in what passed for civilization. 

“No, Corporal Mullen,” the Captain replied, leaning in to his right side in order to be heard, though the movement, the sudden closeness, made Bill flinch. “It’s I who should be apologising to you. I truly had no idea that you were even here. I was told that you had been handed over to your commanding officer, I didn’t know you’d been put in solitary, I thought you’d been moved to the proper hospital along with Reeves, I-”

“Will,” Bill gasped, daring to look up, but the Captain’s face was too close for him to read the expression and he felt his cheeks flush at the concerned frown that had formed on the nurse’s pretty lips. “Lieutenant Reeves,” he amended. “Where is he, sir? Is he safe? Is he alright?”

“Thanks to you,” the other man answered noncommittally, shifting back so that Bill could see the sadness in his glassy eyes, though it became a strain to hear his words. “We owe you our lives, Corporal. You liberated fifty men. And look how we’ve repaid you. Is it as bad as you feared, Sister?” he asked, turning to the nurse who was still knelt beside them.

Bill looked back at the woman but turning his head sent a wave of dizzying nausea through his face and throat and she reached out a hand to steady him as he began to sway. She brought her hand up to his right ear and Bill flinched at the sudden, if faint, click of her fingers, but when her hand moved to his left he heard nothing, and he knew, from the pitying expression on her face, and the captain’s, that whatever they had feared had been confirmed. He sat motionless as the nurse cleaned the stitched wounds around his jaw, neck, and skull, and fought the urge to shy away when she began to prod his ear, biting his lip and clenching his fists tight until he felt a hand take his and realised that the officer, the man he really only knew as Charlie, was gripping his fingers as if the discomfort was a thing they could share between them.

“Sir,” he asked eventually, unsure of how loudly he spoke. “Captain... um-”

“Ainsley,” the captain supplied hurriedly, and Bill nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the man’s lips. “Captain Charles Ainsley.” 

“Captain Ainsley, sir, nice to meet you, sir. What’s going to happen to me?”

Ainsley grimaced, averted his eyes, but Bill remained focused. His head still felt stuffed with wool, damp and oily and thick, and his left side throbbed thickly, but if he focused on the man’s mouth he could understand more of what was being said.

“I don’t know, Bill,” came the reply. “Sister Carter fears you have an infection in your ear. A result of the explosion and from being left without proper care. I only discovered you were here when she came to me directly with her fears so God only knows how long they intended to leave you to rot. God knows what they’ll do when I confront them. It’s all a mess. They’ve got another Australian up on a charge in the south of the colony as we speak. Rumour goes they intend to hang him. I don’t carry much weight around here but I’ll speak for you. You saved Willie’s life, Bill, the doctors all agree he wouldn’t have lived much longer and the word I received this morning says that his recovery will be slow. Who knew sunburn could cause such damage. They don’t want to move him, even to send him home, at this point. But you...” he opened his mouth several times as if hoping the right words would appear, but none came and Bill saw the shadow grow in the captain’s eyes. “I will do what I can, Corporal Mullen. I promise you.”

Bill nodded and allowed the nurse to redress his face. When she was done she moved to sit at his other side and asked him, her speech slow and careful, about his hearing, his pain, the other symptoms that had plagued him. He told her everything and watched the fear dance about her face. She and the captain left with a promise to come back again but Bill didn’t hold out much hope. He’d known well enough what would happen to him. He’d gone against the will of his superiors, was nothing more than a deserter in their eyes, no matter that White had sent Sergeant Llewelyn and two units of men out after him, knowing he’d find the Boer prison camp. He’d been used and abandoned and not even William had been able to save him. His grandmother had said never to trust an Englishman but Bill had learnt too late.

It was a full five days before anyone other than his guard came in to view, and while he recognised the nurse, the man with him was not Captain Ainsley, and his proposition seemed too good to be true. Bill stared at the officer as he spoke, focusing hard on his lips and words, and refusing to think about the pain coming from his face and left ear as the nurse removed the stitches, which seemed to have embedded themselves too deep in his skin to come out easily. 

The major who crouched down before him wasn’t like the other officers Bill had met. He had a strong chin, hadn’t bothered to shave, and had broad shoulders, and he reached out to shake Bill’s hand without reserve. His name was Major John Hennessy and he was a member of the Number 3 Flying Column, a name he uttered with pride, and as if he expected Bill to have heard of it already. Bill only glared at him instead, and clenched his fists as the nurse tugged at the sutures around his eye with grim determination. The major flinched as he watched but didn’t seem the sort of man to be easily put off.

“You ever hear of the Number 3s, boy?” Bill shook his head slightly but the major gave a shrug and tilted his head as if wasn’t a big deal, and that he was secretly pleased to be able to describe his unit in detail. “Well, we’re the best. We move fast, we take down the enemy, we disappear. We don’t faff about with old fashioned warfare, and we are the reason the British are winning this war. We’re also a lot more independent than most units. I heard about your little walkabout and how you undermined that prison camp. None of the big brass are giving you any of the credit but I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with several of the men who were actually there, and they say you’re the man to talk to. See, in the Number 3s we appreciate a man who takes initiative and isn’t afraid to get a job done. And I hate to see a good man go to waste. Or boy, in your case.”

He smirked and waited for Bill to respond but Bill only glared at him until the nurse was done tugging at his face and then turned to thank her.

“Thank you, Sister.”

“You’re most welcome, Corporal,” she told him with a smile that seemed too sad for one so pretty, and left without another word, or so much as a glance in the major’s direction.

“You can speak then,” Hennessy joked when they were alone. “And you can charm too. Well, what d’you say? Your Major White is happy enough to hand you over to me, it’ll save him a headache I’m guessing because he seems quite determined to have you punished but didn’t seem keen on the execution the other brass wanted to plan. And a Captain Ainsley recommended you to me, told me your record, and I’m more than happy to gain a man with your sort of history with explosives. So, what’s it to be, Mullen? You join the Number 3s and you’re a free man. You get a fresh start.”

Bill nodded. He didn’t want to go back out in to the war again, but it was better than death. He still wanted to believe that, given time, Will would be able to track him down, but he couldn’t wait around in a cell until that happened, not if there were men out there who wanted to see him dead. From what Captain Ainsley had said Will wasn’t likely to be up and about any time soon and Bill needed to stay out of trouble until he was. The Number 3s, he thought, might just help him stay alive long enough for Will to find him. It would make a nice change.

“Alright,” he said eventually, trying to regulate how loudly he was speaking, hoping he could actually be heard when the man leaned forward in to his space. “I don’t hear too well, still, but I’ll do it. Do I report to you, or?”

~~~~

April 19th, 1901

“Captain Reeves Did you hear me?” the man leaned over him, annoyance writ large across his face at William’s lack of ready response. “I said, we’re sending you home, man. That’s good news. You’ll leave at the end of the week.”

Somewhere a clock was ticking, the rhythm just on the wrong side of slow, as if each second the mechanism considered stopping all together, and William blinked, shaking himself out of the stupor it had held him in. It was as if he were pulling himself free of a dream, waking up even though his eyes were already open, and he felt a jolt shoot through his chest.

“No,” he said sharply, though his voice was breathy with disuse. “No.” The man recoiled but Will sat up straighter in the bed, clenching his jaw against the tender pull of his back. “No, with your permission, sir, I’d like to stay on. I would like a chance to recover here, sir. There are some Boer, you see, that I owe a sound thrashing. And I would be loathe to miss my opportunity.”

The man, the colonel, Will noticed as he focused more carefully, sat down beside the bed with a huff, but it was good natured, and when Will dared to meet his eye he saw a measure of both respect and good humour reflected there. He wasn’t sure who the man was, hadn’t caught his name, but Will could judge the character of most of the big brass and quickly decided that this was a time to appear keen and efficient. The man before him, with his overly large, walrus moustache, and bulbous, sunburnt nose, appreciated men who showed pluck, Will guessed, and even if he felt very out of practice, he tried to make himself appear earnest.

“Are you sure about that, Reeves?” His moustache seemed to move independent of the rest of his large face and Will found himself fighting the urge to laugh, thinking absurdly of how Bill might react to such a man, and the thought of his lost love spurred him on in his resolve. “I’ve been reliably informed that we’re done when it comes to traditional warfare, Reeves. The honourable battlefield has met its death in the Transvaal. The stunt you boys pulled at that work camp turned the tide like you wouldn’t believe and similar tactics have been working all across the colony. Organised battlefield maneuvers are out, guerrilla fighting is in. We’re winning this war, Reeves, but my notes on you say you’re best in battlefield tactics. We won’t be needing those and you’ve earned your ticket home.”

It was tempting. William so wanted to be out of the war - away from the sun and the dust and the noise - but he’d made a promise, both to himself and to Bill, and he intended to keep it. He winced as he tried to change his position in the bed. He had only really been allowed to lean his weight on his back for a week and was in no fit state to be back on active duty, but there was no way he was going to accept a ticket home if it meant leaving Bill lost somewhere in the Cape. He needed to find the man, but it would be tricky to manage and his tired mind was in no fit state to provide him with a solution.

“A trip home is tempting, sir,” he nodded with a smile, “but I don’t like to leave a job half done, and I owe it to the men who marched out to rescue me. I doubt there are many others keen to take charge of the Bushmen.”

“Ah yes,” the colonel said with a chuckle. “They are a rather rowdy bunch, from what I’ve heard. There was almost a revolt, you know? Before White relented and let them go after you. Well, if you must hang about I’m sure you’ll be very welcome. They have been moved however, further inland, toward the last real Boer resistance, though I assume that won’t be too much of a problem.” He paused long enough for Will to nod before hurrying on, seeming profoundly pleased that he wouldn’t have to find another officer to deal with the difficult Australian regiment. “Alright, Reeves. I’ll make it happen. You might need a few more days in bed first, what. You’re not what I’d call recovered. But I do have some other good news for you,” he smiled, handing over a letter which, when Will opened it, held a Captain’s insignia. “Your promotion came through the day you were taken prisoner. Congratulations, Captain Reeves. It’s a pleasure to still have you on board.”

William watched the man walk away and exhaled carefully as he readjusted his hips to ease the ache in his back. The idea of leading a unit again frightened him and he knew that realistically he should not have been allowed to stay, but he also knew that he needed to stay, and that the army needed him, even if they phrased it differently. He gazed down at the insignia he held in his hands, the letter confirming his promotion, and felt rather ill. 

When he’d first heard that he’d been put up for the promotion Will had been delighted. He’d thought of his father and how pleased the man would be to hear of his son’s success. He’d told Bill of it excitedly, like an eager child, feeling foolish about his need for validation, but Bill had indulged him joyfully, with kisses and praise. And now, sitting in the hospital bed, with proof of his success in his hands, all William could feel was grief. He wanted to tell Bill, to feel the man’s arms around him, reassuring him and congratulating him. He wanted to hold him. He wanted to know that Bill was still alive, still a reality in his life, but there was no way, at present, and it cut at his heart. 

He would simply have to wait, he told himself, until he could make it back to the Queensland Imperial Bushmen, the men he now saw as his own. He would get back to Bill, would find him and together they would stay alive until the war was finally over. It couldn’t be so long now, he told himself, they were winning after all. A few months, he assured himself, and it would all be over. He would leave behind the heat and the sun and the violence, and return home, and he would take Bill home with him, somehow. He just had to recover well enough to be able to stand straight without pain first.

~~~~

May 4th, 1901

William strode between the tents, shoulders hunched, desperate to get out of the sun, anger boiling through his stomach and up his throat until he wasn’t sure what would erupt if he dared to open his mouth, whether he would vomit or scream, and he ground his teeth together, unwilling to show any sort of weakness, any sort of fear. Show nothing, his brain ordered him, and he followed the direction, keeping his mouth shut and face blank. 

He felt humiliated, used, and horribly exposed. Upon his arrival at the British camp Major White had behaved strangely toward him, awkward and almost fearful, and Will had assumed it was because the man had made the decision to leave Will and several other officers at the mercy of the Boer as prisoners. There had been no way to safely bring up Bill, White had barely wanted to speak to him, had avoided eye contact and filled the air with meaningless words about watch rotation and how there was no room for injured men, no matter what his superiors had told him about William’s return to active service. He had made Will feel like a nuisance and when he was finally dismissed he had been shaking both from fatigue and from anger, and had sought out his tent before going in search of his lieutenant and sergeant. 

The lieutenant, when Will had recovered himself enough to leave his tent in search of the man, had been a stranger; he’d been transferred to the battalion when they arrived at the inland camp and had heavy brows and a monotonous voice that Will found he had little patience for. He had little care for the Australian unit that remained within their battalion, and reported that they were an unruly lot, of little use. He’d charged several men with drunkenness and fighting and warned William that it wasn’t worth his time. Will had answered the man by insisting that he speak with the sergeant, and had come close to smiling when Llewelyn appeared in the tent. 

The man looked equally pleased to see him and saluted with enthusiasm. “Permission to say it’s good to see you, Captain Reeves, sir,” he bellowed jovially. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, sir, if you don’t mind my saying.”

The lieutenant looked rather put out and moved forward as if to speak but Will gave him no opportunity and stepped forward to shake Llewelyn’s rough, broad, hand. A captain he might be but he intended to make it plain which men he stood with. 

“Sergeant, it is a pleasure. I owe you a great deal, I think. I’m told it was your men, with you at the helm, who got me out of that hellhole. I owe you my sanity as well as my life.”

“An honour, sir. But I can’t really take the credit. If you get my meaning, sir.” Once again the vague desire to smile whispered along the line of Will’s lips but it was gone almost immediately when he saw the grief enter the sergeant’s eyes, and he chose his next words with care, maintaing an outward calm that he certainly did not feel. 

“How are your men, Sergeant?” he asked, the gaze of the lieutenant on him making his shoulders tighten as he attempted to give nothing away. “Your losses haven’t been too great, I hope? Major White tells me I am to head out on patrol with your men this very night and I am looking forward to seeing you all again.”

There was a beat of silence before Llewelyn answered and the fear William saw in that moment broke his heart. “We’ve lost a few, sir. More than I’d like. I was short of a corporal for a good few weeks. A good corporal’s hard to replace, as I’m sure you know,” he offered, beseechingly. “It was a hard blow. I thought you knew.”

Will felt as if he had been shot, as if the whip had come down once again, to crack against his ribs with enough ferocity to wind him. It hadn’t crossed his mind that Bill wouldn’t be alive and well and back with the Bushmen. He had assumed that Bill would face consequences, of course, but never in his mind had he thought that the man he loved could be dead. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His throat tightened and his tongue and jaw began to ache with the effort of not screaming. 

Say nothing! Feel nothing! his brain screamed. Show nothing! And with effort Will pulled himself back from the panic and stripped his face of emotion. Llewelyn however, seemed to have noticed both Will’s distress and how he had pulled himself out of it, and reached out to grasp Will’s bicep, to ground him, and to offer comfort, despite the scowl the lieutenant gave him.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know how close you and the corporal were. He was an invaluable tracker. He’s sorely missed.”

“He was a good man,” Will nodded, stealing himself to continue. “Could you tell me, Sergeant, how it happened? Was it at the prison camp, or-”

Will felt the awkwardness overwhelming him. He hated that their conversation was being watched, hated that he had to make such enquiries as if the man in question meant nothing to him, hated the need to make such enquiries at all. He could feel the hopes he and Bill had shared for the future being ripped away, like a fabric too delicate to take the strain of such sadness. 

“I’m not sure what went on in the Boer camp, sir,” Llewelyn said carefully. “I can report more fully another time, perhaps. Corporal Mullen... went on ahead of our unit, sir, to get you and the other men out. He suffered injuries during the uprising of the prisoners, as I understand it, but he was alive when we left the place. I,” Llewelyn choked suddenly and it was a strain to remain stoic and unmoved at the man’s display. “I haven’t been told, officially, what became of him, sir. We’ve only heard rumours, sir, but none of them were good. He wouldn’t be the first Australian tried and executed in recent months, sir.”

Will shivered and stepped back. He needed to get away, to retreat and be alone, to centre himself and process what he was hearing. 

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said quietly. “I will need to speak to you again, later this evening, but that’s all for now. You’re dismissed, Sergeant. Thank you again.”

He watched Llewelyn leave and then turned and dismissed the lieutenant sharply as well, not caring that the man looked affronted, not caring that he couldn’t remember the man’s name, and then stalked from the tent as quickly as he could, seeking out his own sleeping quarters as his heart began to beat frantically. No one had told him. No one had told him the details of the prison break, or how it had come about, no one had told him of Bill’s part in it all or that he’d been injured. William had been in the hospital for weeks but hadn’t seen him, and he’d heard almost nothing about the whole affair. 

Shoulders hunched against the sun he tried to seem aloof as he came to his tent and ducked inside but felt sure that every man he’d passed could see the grief writ upon his face. He felt used, lied to, but knew that such emotions were unfounded. No one knew what Bill meant to him, what they had shared, so how could they have known that he would have wanted to speak in the man’s defense and to see him again. 

He sat down heavily on his cot, trying to breathe and failing miserably, and then finally gave in to the tears that had built behind his eyes. He had imagined a happy reunion but that was not to be. He should have gone home, should have taken the chance and run. But now he was trapped, trapped in a war that seemed determined to continue beyond every end date his superiors gave, and he wondered if it was some kind of hell, a handmade torment made just for him. Will let his head fall in to his hands, pressing his fingers in to his skull in order to feel the pain as acutely as he might, fighting to cry in silence. His Bill, his William, was dead, and he was not even at liberty to grieve.

~~~~

November 12th, 1901

Shit! Bill thought viciously, pushing the body of the larger man off of him as the panic raged unchecked through his veins and the man’s blood covered his shirt. Shit! The Boer commando had snuck up on him as he’d been setting his explosives and the only warning he’d had was a flash of the man’s blade in the dark. The troopers who’d been with him, who had supposed to be on watch and defending their position, were nowhere to be found, and he gazed around the empty scrub fearfully, feeling terribly alone. At that moment the blood stained knife fell from his attacker’s limp hand and Bill dug his heels and hands in to the hard dirt and crab-walked further away from the corpse, blinking away the tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes.

He’d been hoping for months that his hearing would eventually return but had finally started to grieve for what now seemed irretrievably lost, and to fear the world that he could no longer control or even interact with properly. Major Hennessy had been kind enough to start with, had made allowances for his injury, mostly because he knew that if he wanted to use Bill’s skills he needed to do things a bit differently. Still, Hennessy had asked him daily whether his hearing was improving, turning it in to a game to hide his concern and disappointment. Bill’s hearing wasn’t coming back, not to his left ear in any case, and he knew that many of the men in the Number 3s saw him as a liability, regardless of how good he was. Now it seemed that the troopers with working ears had fallen victim to the enemy and Bill, for all his lack of awareness of his surroundings, had managed to survive. It felt incredibly cruel but Bill had long since given up on the idea that life was kind.

As he drew his knees up to his chin, digging his fingers in to his calves, Bill swallowed his scream. The ringing was back, sitting within the shell of his right ear and driving him to the edge of madness, but he stayed silent. There was something in his head telling him to hush, to wait and fade in to the darkness of the night. It was Will’s voice, and he obeyed it, clenching his jaw and curling his body up tight just as two more Boer commandos walked in to view, bold in the dense undergrowth, apparently confident that they had neutralised the British unit in their territory.

Bill watched them pass, hating them and unable to verbalise why, and as they approached the ridge, the point where Bill had laid his dynamite, he began to crawl forward. His fuse wasn’t long enough, he knew that, but the opportunity was too good, and he let them begin their decent before striking his match, lighting his fuse, and turning to run like hell. He was vaguely aware of the men noticing him, yelling, but it only made him run faster as he sensed the fuse nearing its mark. 

The explosion knocked him off his feet and he tumbled down an embankment, trying not to put his hands forward to break his fall for fear of breaking a wrist. The ringing was worse than ever now, and as his shoulder hit the dirt he found himself sobbing, spurred on by the fire at his back. He ran like he was being chased by all the demons of hell, registering the various cuts and bruises to his body and face without slowing, but fell badly as he rounded a stand of stones and clenched his teeth against the scream that wanted to escape his throat.

Nothing went right anymore. Life had become a hell beyond anything he’d imagined before and every day he caught himself wishing that something would happen to end it all for him. It made it all the more frustrating when his body’s survival instinct kicked in and he did fight, did run, but he blamed that on Will’s voice in his head, and still hoped that eventually the decision would be taken from him. There were only so many times he could be lucky, not that he considered staying alive lucky anymore. He’d given up any hope that Will would find him along with his hope that his hearing would go back to normal. They’d been parted for almost a year by Bill’s reckoning and he’d decided that if Will had wanted to track him down he probably would have done so by this point. He’d heard tell of an officer who’d been sent home for having some sort of break down after being liberated from a prison camp and he could just about believe that it had been William, he’d certainly been unhinged the last time they’d met, but there was no way of knowing for sure. Even if it had been Will it only confirmed that Bill had been left behind with no certainty or hope for the future.

He dragged himself unsteadily to his feet and stumbled back toward the meeting point, hoping to see the missing troopers on his way, but there was nothing, no one, until he stumbled from the trees, dizzy and confused, realising too late that he’d emerged at the wrong point, and in to the wrong unit. It only clicked in his mind when he saw the familiar, weathered face of Sergeant Llewelyn and cried out in delight, rushing forward to where he was standing beside a stooped, skeletally thin man with the beginnings of a beard shadowing his face. Bill began to speak, to announce himself and greet the man who was one of the few he could call friend, but stopped dead when the officer beside Llewelyn turned.

“Will?” he breathed, swaying on his feet, not daring to believe the evidence of his eyes. “William?” He took two steps forward, arm outstretched, not quite trusting himself to do more until he was acknowledged, hating the clouded look in William’s eyes, the grey tinge to his skin beneath the peeling sunburn. He looked as he’d done the last time they’d met, broken and in no way recovered from his ordeal, and Bill felt his heart breaking as he waited for some sign that Will would recognise him. “Lieutenant Reeves, sir? It’s Corporal Mullen, sir?”

The circle of officers turned to stare at him, some in confusion, others in disgust, two with weapons half drawn at the sight of him and Bill knew he must look half wild. He was covered in the blood of the Boer soldier he’d killed as well as grazes and mud from his falls, and he could barely draw a proper breath no matter how his chest heaved. For a second he feared he’d be arrested, or shot, before Llewelyn came forward, his eyes wide.

“Mullen? Bill Mullen? How are you here? You-”

“You can’t be here!” The words were rough, broken, a sudden interruption that made the growing crowd jump as one and turn toward their usually emotionless captain. “You’re dead. You died. You can’t be here!” He sounded tortured and Bill rushed toward him, stumbling when Will flinched and brought his hands up defensively. “You have to leave me alone,” Will said, his voice high and young and desperate. “Please? You’re dead, let me be.”

And with that he doubled over and vomited over their shoes, crumpling in two, and Bill caught him, bracing himself to support the man as Llewelyn ran forward to aid him. Together they carried him away from the watching crowd and toward a tent where they lay him carefully on a narrow cot, too short for his lover’s long frame. He was painfully thin and it hurt to see him so, but Bill was allowed little time to gaze upon his William. There were officers following fast behind and Llewelyn grasped his arm and pulled him in to a fierce hug before stepping back to look at him disbelievingly. 

“What happened to you, lad?” he whispered. “We thought you were dead. We- we all did. What happened?”

“I don’t quite know, Sarge,” Bill answered, his eyes sliding away from the man’s sun-beaten face and back to the still form of William. “It’s been... a long war.”  



	21. Chapter 21

9th September. 1915  
Western Front,  
France

Bill was spoiling for a fight by the time he reached the reserve trench and the HQ dugout. He’d sent on his intel about the work camp just beyond the border days ago. He had written word for word what the German soldier had told him, and sent it express to Colonel White and to Charlie, had gone through all the appropriate channels, had done everything that had been bloody asked of him, and instead of hearing anything back directly, and as soon as possible, he’d been left waiting and wondering for days, frustrated and angry, and frighteningly close to tears. 

Once he would have been able to rely on his sergeant’s bluff, not-to-be-argued-with manner to deal with officers being uncooperative, now he had no one. There was no one on his side above the rank of corporal, and it was rather lonely, and left him all too vulnerable. The lieutenant who was his direct superior was a boy of twenty with next to no clue about explosives, tunneling, war, or anything else, and seemed to constantly fear that Bill would pick his pocket. The captain he was to report to openly disliked him and had decided that the botched job at the three bridges had been entirely Bill’s fault, probably because he was the only one left alive to blame. At one point in his life Bill would have considered giving up but these days he figured dying wouldn’t be so easy - he’d never managed it before - and so channeled the fear and exhaustion, the grief and rage, outward instead of in on himself. He had too much to live for, dammit, especially now, when he knew he needed to get home to comfort Mrs Evans and be present for her children, and when he finally knew where Will was being held - so nearly within reach. Not to mention what was left of his unit - shell shocked and beyond exhaustion as they were - they needed Bill as well and Bill needed to be there for them.

And now, he thought, stoking the fire in his chest as he marched toward the narrow doorway, he’d been called away from his unit by some unknown Major with no explanation, as if they could even spare him when they’d lost their sergeant and two lieutenants, and their broken unit was limping along with only Bill and another corporal left with any experience. They had no work to be getting on with and no hope. There were rumours that the tunneling would cease and their units split up and none of the remaining men fancied that. Bill hoped he wasn’t being summoned for such news and hoped he would only be meeting his new officers, though why they had to drag him away from his unit to do so was a mystery to him. They’d been given the job of shoring up trench walls for the last day, to keep them from getting restless and stepping out of line, but Bill knew it wasn’t a long term solution. The tunnelers were unique and didn’t take well to idleness, or doing work that was outside of their areas of expertise. 

Bill hoped that whoever this major was they at least weren’t the type to take offense at a soldier for being untidy. Bill’s uniform felt like it was falling apart, his entire body ached down to his bones, and there was mud and chalk ingrained so deeply in the creases of his skin and the beds of his fingernails that he felt he’d never be free of it. If he looked half as exhausted as he felt he must look a proper fright, a thought which almost made him smile. Only the ringing in his ear stopped him, turning the grin into a grimace as he winced. The noise had gone from an occasional annoyance to a constant one.

Deep down Bill was mostly just tired, but there was no way he was going to let that show, not in front of some officer who wasn’t a local to the trenches. What he did intend to do was to give the man as much lip as he could get away with. He’d been shot at, showered in shrapnel, had his sergeant die in his arms, had arrived back at the Glory-Hole to learn there had been another collapse thanks to the German shelling, and had been yelled at by a chinless excuse for a captain for being a coward, simply because he’d survived. He didn’t much care what the man said usually, he treated Bill’s skin colour like it was a contagious disease, but the words had hurt. He’d had Sergeant Evans’ body slung over his back at the time, so that the man could be properly buried and honoured instead of lying forgotten beneath the battlefield, and the green officer had threatened to have him court marshaled. Now he was walking toward a meeting with a Major from some safe, distant, office instead of being able to mount a rescue mission for the man he loved and had a terrible suspicion that he was about to be disciplined.

His tread was heavy on the wooden steps down to the HQ dugout and he couldn’t hide his grin at the way the man jumped as he turned at the sound and was faced with five feet, four inches of furious corporal. Bill was sure the hell fire burning within him was visible in his eyes and the major looked genuinely terrified when Bill approached and gave a salute. How did a man rise to the rank of Major, he wondered, if they scared that easily? And how did they intend to discipline him when they appeared to be completely incapable of looking him in the eye?His suspicion was piqued further by the papers the man held, and the stripes.

“Mullen, I presume?” he asked in the most timid voice Bill had ever heard.

The man opened his mouth to continue but the sudden rattle of distant machine gun fire made him jump and draw his shoulders up and Bill caught sight of a glint of brass on the man’s arm. A wounded stripe, he realised. Suddenly the darting eyes and hunched shoulders made more sense and Bill tried to relax his own posture a little, without seeming to bear the man disrespect. Whatever had happened to this soldier, it had left him with more than just physical wounds and no doubt he was suffering a great deal for being so close to the front line.

“Yessir,” he replied softly when the worst of the noise had passed. “Corporal Bill Mullen, sir. Special Tunnelers Unit, sir. How can I help you, sir?”

“Oh no, Mullen,” the man said with a ghost of a smile fluttering across his thin lips. “It is I who might be of some service to you today. Usually,” he said, holding out the papers in Bill’s direction and nodding for him to be at ease, “there would be a little more ceremony to this, at least there was back in peace time. But we do what we must, eh, Sergeant?”

Bill took the papers the Major offered him gingerly, as if there was a chance they were some sort of trap, and stared at the two sets of stripes that lay atop them. Sergeants’ stripes.

“Sir?” he looked up in surprise, trying to read the man’s face but finding nothing useful in the shadows of his deep set eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

“Really?” The Major gave a little chuckle at that, though it was an undernourished sort of sound. He produced a pen and side stepped to stand beside Bill, pointing out where his signature was required for the official paperwork to go through. “Well, Sergeant. Your unit is currently without a sergeant. When that report came through I was dispatched to inform you of your promotion, and to offer you this.” He held up another stripe and Bill stared and the new brass. A wound stripe.

“I’m not wounded, sir,” Bill pointed out but noted that the man had chosen to stand by his good ear and that he was now looking at him with a great deal of understanding.

“My department recently convinced the powers that be to award these to men who were previously wounded in the line of duty. Your file was initially rejected because you were serving as an Australian volunteer at the time, however,” he paused and looked up cautiously, as if trying to gage Bill’s reaction. “I was recently paid a visit by Colonel White - he did say he would meet me here, to be here when I presented this but I fear he must have been delayed - but he informed me of the manner of your injuries, sustained in the rescue of British officers. It was decided that this stripe was warranted, and the least we could do, really. I asked specifically to be allowed to be the one to hand this to you, Sergeant. I fought in the Boer, you see. I was... held at that prison camp in fact. I... I believe I owe you my life. Thank you.”

Bill was overwhelmed with the impulse to hug the man, his emotions were beyond frayed and the gratitude he felt at being offered such thanks was like a physical pain. He also wanted to ask the man whether the Colonel had mentioned the fact that at the time of the incident at the prison camp he had been the one to formally reprimand Bill, lock him in solitary, and dock his pay. Still, he supposed, it was a gesture, and he took the sergeant’s stripes and wounded stripe with a nod of thanks. The Major lingered anxiously at his side even after Bill had signed his name but Bill was used to men watching him write, as if it was some circus trick, that an Aboriginal man could make a mark other than an X. When he didn’t move after a count of ten, however, Bill began to feel a small measure of concern for him. The last of the morning’s barrage was rolling overhead and each blast and rumble was making the poor chap jump frightfully.

“Was there something else, sir?” he asked when the worst of the noise had faded. “Only I should get back to... my men.”

The words sounded odd to his ear but he knew there was no going back. They were his men. He wouldn’t trust them to anyone else.

“Yes. No. I only...” the man swallowed nervously. “Colonel White did wish to speak with you... quite urgently. I would not wish for you to...”

“Nothing to worry about there,” came a booming voice from the doorway and Bill shot out a hand to steady the Major as he jolted so severely he nearly fell. They turned to face the Colonel as he strode in to the dugout and Bill gave him a salute that was far more enthusiastic than any he’d given the man before though far less than he’d given the major standing at his side. The Colonel looked tired, Bill thought, but they were all tired these days so that was nothing remarkable. It would have been strange if the man had looked fresh and well-rested. The fact that he looked worn thin by the world at least suggested he’d been doing his job. “Thank you for informing the Sergeant of his promotion, Major, and for detaining him until my arrival. From memory Sergeant Mullen can be rather a hard man to track down if left to his own devises.” Bill’s muscles tensed at that, his feet shifting in to a defensive stance at the subtle attack, even though he knew that really White had a point. “You can head on back to HQ now Major,” he then said with a gentler tone than Bill had ever heard from him and the nervous man left thankfully, with a frail salute and a spare grin, leaving Bill and Colonel White alone in a silence so thick Bill worried his hearing had gone again entirely. 

“Did you get my message, sir?” he asked eventually, when White seemed unwilling to continue speaking. “I sent it off four days ago, sir. I really think that it’s my best shot, sir, to get to W-” he bit down on the name before it could escape, hating the way White’s eyes narrowed as he took in Bill’s discomfort. He continued more slowly. “I really think it’s our best shot to get Captain Reeves out of harm, sir. I’m not ignorant to the fact that he was in possession of certain intelligence, information that may have been vital to Britain’s success in this war, information which the Germans would likely be keen to relieve him of. I don’t know all the particulars, sir,” he hurried on when White opened his mouth as if to speak, his expression in the earliest stage of outrage. “Captain Reeves is very, very good at keeping secrets. I only know what was written on the letter hidden in his last postcard, but knowing Reeves, that wasn’t the whole of it. They have to have run out of ideas if they’ve sent him to a work camp, especially one so close to the front. They don’t usually send officers to those places, so I’ve heard. They’re trying to break him, sir, and it’s got to be in the army’s best interest to get him out, sir. I’ve got to get him out, sir.”

He clenched his jaw to stop the torrential outpouring of words, aware that he was giving himself away the more he said. It was just too difficult to carry on as normal (or as normal as a war could be) knowing that he had finally found some proof of where Will was being held and that it was so near. White was staring at him strangely. The outrage had faded but there was something about the way he was staring that made Bill uncomfortable. He looked down at the fresh, new, sergeants stripes and wound stripe in his hands, trying to integrate the new markers or rank and experience into his understanding of himself, focusing on the pattern of the stitching to distract his mind from the panic coiling in his chest.

“Captain Reeves and yourself,” White mused, focusing his own eyes on a point somewhere above Bill’s head as he spoke. “You are quite a pair, aren’t you.” 

“He’s a very good man, sir,” Bill returned hurriedly. “He gave me a home after I was discharged. He gave me a job, treated me like family. He’s has been a fine employer to me for more than a dozen years. He is a fine friend, he-”

He clamped his mouth shut once more but couldn’t not deny the terrifying, sinking feeling that he had revealed himself, especially when tears were itching at the corners of his eyes and his throat was twisting in on itself so painfully. What would he do if the Colonel confronted him or had him taken in to custody? What would he do if he was faced with the knowledge that there would be no rescue, and no future with the man he loved? It didn’t bear imagining - indeed he’d imagined it before, a war ago, and it had nearly driven him insane with worry - but Colonel White was clearly thinking deeply about something and Bill found himself bracing for what it might be.

“I’ve known you both a long time, Mullen,” White said in a low voice after a significant pause. It wasn’t what Bill had expected, was far from the yelling or sneering or threats he’d anticipated, but he didn’t feel up to indulging the man’s flight of nostalgia either.

“No sir,” he replied more bluntly than he’d meant to. “You knew us a long time ago. There’s a difference.”

If White chose to, Bill knew he’d be able to call him out for talking out of turn and while he’d never much cared for winding in his words, Bill closed his fist tight around his sergeant stripes as he locked eyes with the man. He suddenly had even more to lose, it seemed, but White didn’t appear to be concerned, for once, with Bill’s language or tone.

“I, uh, I have to say, Mullen, though it may not be considered quite proper to speak of such things, yet I am compelled to tell you...” White’s mouth continued to move even after the words had trickled away to nothing, his chin wobbling almost comically as he tried to speak. William had pointed out once, years ago, that when White began to waffle on, padding out his sentences with filler words to avoid getting to his point, it was because he was afraid of what would happen when he got to the end of it. The way the Colonel was rambling, he had to be more than commonly nervous, and that was making Bill nervous as well. “The truth of the matter is, Sergeant... I have a son, Mullen. Just the one. My son. Or I did. Until several months before this damned war, when I found him... discovered him in, in what one might call a scandalous situation.”

Bill watched the man, the way his shoulders were slumping as if weighed down by grief, the shame that was staining his neck and cheeks an ugly red, the way his eyes had begun darting around the cramped dugout. He was trying to put words to something that caused him pain and discomfort of the worst kind, something he had no wish to divulge to anyone. Yet he was telling Bill, or trying to.

“I think I understand, sir.”

White glanced at him but looked like he was back under the South African sun rather than in a frozen dugout on the French border. His skin was mottled and he’d started to sweat, and Bill felt a perverse pleasure at seeing him so uncomfortable.

“I thought you might,” he said tightly, eyes still averted. “I cast him from my home, said he was no son of mine. It was the wrong thing to do.” Bill watched as tears suddenly fell to the man’s cheeks and wondered that there was no hiss at the water hit the burning, shamed skin. He wondered what he was supposed to feel at such a confession - what the Colonel wanted from him. There was always a chance, the hard voice in his brain reminded him, that this was a set up designed to catch him out. It wasn’t likely, but it kept him silent even so. When White began talking again, pacing around the confined room, Bill shifted his head to hear better. He didn’t want to miss whatever was coming next. “I have discovered, quite accidentally, that my son enlisted last year, as a private, under his mother’s maiden name. Unfortunately I only discovered this information as I read through the details of the men being held at the work camp that you asked me to... to look in to. The Red Cross keep thorough records though I could not find any mention of Reeves, Mullen. I believe you when you say he is there but the facts are not so straight forward. There is no real proof of Captain William Reeves but there is a soldier there listed under one of Reeves’ aliases, though God only knows why the Germans would do that, other than to taunt us. But my son, he’s there as well. They... they have my son.”

A gust of icy wind swept through the ill-fitting door and Bill held himself tight until it passed. Sometimes these days he felt the wind would whip his feet right out from under him, splinter his bones and leave him bruised beyond recognition. Once he’d considered himself strong. Now he felt like he was a shell, lacking in substance and strength.

“I am so sorry, sir.”

“There is no way I could authorise an attack against the camp for the sake of a single, enlisted man. There was little chance of authorisation for an unsubstantiated claim that one of our Intelligence Officers is being kept there. However,” he said hurriedly when Bill opened his mouth to argue. “Your other information does match one of our operatives. A scottish fellow. He was captured whilst retrieving... very... sensitive information and has reportedly attempted to escape confinement at least four times. This work camp seems to be where the German send such pesky officers to quietly dispose of them. It is under guard but not as heavily as one might imagine from last night’s reconnaissance. Tonight a small team will circle around the trenches and through the woodlands to break in to the camp and retrieve our operative, and as many other men as can be liberated. I have come to tell you this, Mullen, as a courtesy. If Reeves is recovered you will be notified in due course.”

“No!” White didn’t startle, though Bill spoke with greater volume than could possibly be considered respectful, and he began to think that the man had anticipated his reaction. Instead he met Bill’s gaze, a spark of hope in his tired, red, eyes. “I need to be on that team, Colonel. It’s why I’m here, sir. You know that. You owe me.”

“You have a command now, Sergeant. Your men need you here,” White answered, his voice now carefully devoid of emotion. Bill straightened his spine and rolled his shoulders. He recognised a challenge when he heard one.

“My men need a break. They’re due the time, especially after all that’s happened to them over the last week. There are no new tunnels scheduled to be dug and they’re set to be sent away from the front just after sun down. If I don’t make it back from tonight’s mission I’ll be easily replaced before they’re even due back. I need to do this, sir.”

Even though the words were true Bill couldn’t help but feel he wasn’t being entirely honest. They were his men, he understood them, and he hated the thought of them being left to some bloke with no knowledge of their quirks and skills and needs. But going after Will trumped every other concern, and every reservation in his head. It there was a team going after Will then he was going to be on it.

“It is to be a stealth mission, Mullen,” White challenged again, in that same emotionless voice. “No explosives required.”

Bill grinned, though there wasn’t much to smile over; it was more a reflex when there was mention of munitions or dynamite or fuses. The promise of a flame, a sizzling spark, a big bang, it all made his heart flutter and quicken. But he understood the need for stealth on this particular mission. He’d snuck out of the barracks enough as a lad to know how to move silently, and knew how to walk with enough care that the triggers for buried mines didn’t blow him skyward. He could dig a tunnel without making so much as a scrape of spade against stone. His tunnels had never been detected ahead of time. He could do silence, and White knew it. 

“I can be quiet, sir. And I can find your son.”

“Good man,” White breathed, his relief evident on his lined and sagging face. “Thank you. Sergeant O’Connor will be here in five hours to brief you and take you to the drop off. Thank you, Mullen, and-” he paused, mouth open and ready, but no words came and Bill watched the blush creep back in to his cheeks like wine on a worn out shirt. “Thank you, Mullen,” he finished lamely and then seemed to collect himself and strode out of the dugout without a backward glance. Not that Bill minded, he was happy to see the back of the man, but he intended to keep his promise to him as well. He’d get White’s son out of that prison, and Will, if it was the last thing he did.

A minute later Bill hurried away from the HQ dugout and back to where his men were bunking down for the day. There was too much to do and few hours to do it all in and he knew that despite the fire racing through his veins and the thoughts racing through his head, one of the most important things he needed to do was sleep for at least a few hours. The last time he’d staged a rescue he’d been young and stupid and capable of running on minimal sleep. This time he intended to use his head a little more. He couldn’t afford to blow a hole in a wall and lose his hearing completely. He couldn’t afford to fail and lose William for good. He would do silent, if that was what the job required, but he wasn’t leaving without Will, and had every intention of filling his pack with as many grenades and sticks of dynamite as he could carry.

First though, he intended to sew on his new stripes. When he’d been made corporal he’d considered it an anomaly and he knew that several of the men involved in the decision had regretted doing so almost immediately, White included. But now he had a chance to prove that he was worth something, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a very long time, and the resulting pride made his chest swell until he thought he would burst. He couldn’t wait to tell Will.

~~~~

“Reeves! Reeves?” the voice hissing through the darkness made him jump and Will felt the tickle in his throat bubble through to his lungs like acid, squeezing the air from them until his whole being shook with coughing. It was getting worse. He’d seen it in the doctor’s eyes whenever he coughed in front of the man, and he could feel it within himself. He wasn’t getting better. “Reeves?”

“What do you want, Alfred?” he wheezed eventually, rolling over in his narrow bunk to face the troubled young man beside him. “I’m trying to die in peace and you keep interrupting. Jolly rude, don’t you think?”

He expected the man to laugh, even if only nervously, because such was the usual pattern of their conversations but instead there was silence and he could just make out the bright whites of the man’s eyes in the darkness, staring out toward with more than just their usual level of fear and concern.

“I need to talk to you, Reeves,” Doctor Soorjo answered. “Actually I need to talk to you about several things but I fear that one shall seem too trivial, the other too morbid.” 

He sighed in to the darkness and Will felt his fear spark. He tried to rise from his bunk but couldn’t seem to judge his surroundings and felt his head spin in the darkness as he struggled to place where the floor might be in relation to his position.

“If it’s that I’m dying then I told you, I’m trying to do it quietly,” Will spoke in to the black room, clenching the frame of his bunk in his shaking hands. He coughed again, fighting against the urge to groan at the pain, concentrating on the sick feeling of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. “Not quite succeeding,” he wheezed when his burning lungs would allow it, “but trying all the same.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Soorjo sighed again, “though I’ll admit that your health was one of the things I wished to talk to you about. It’s not good, Reeves. In all seriousness, it’s not. You cry out in your sleep, I fear you’ve slipped in to a delirium every time. The pneumonia is so advanced and yet when I attempted to speak to the guards on your behalf they refused my request for you to be moved back to a hospital. I’m not sure how much longer your body will be able to cope, Reeves. I don’t know what more I can do.”

The sadness in his voice was heartbreaking and Will was reminded of how young the man actually was. He hadn’t reached thirty yet and despite his medical experience he wasn’t yet easy with death. Will touched his finger to the scrap of paper hidden within his shirt cuff - the names of the men he’d known, the men who’d died and the families they had left behind. When he died he would need to pass the list on to Soorjo, but he couldn’t bring up such a thing when his friend was feeling so vulnerable. They both knew Will was dying, there was no need to rehash the issue, especially when there was nothing to be done about it.

“Tell me about your trivial problem then, Alfred,” he whispered gently. “Talk to me about something I might actually be able to help you with.”

“It’s my sister,” came the voice after a thoughtful pause. “I lost her last letter in the escape. The failed escape. She’s a nurse, you know. Did I tell you that?”

“You did,” Will acknowledged with a wan smile. “She sounds formidable.”

“She is that.” There was a creak and a shuffling as Soorjo shuffled from his own bunk and over to Will’s, sitting beside him in order to speak more softly, more intimately. “She’s so important to me, Reeves. My parents charged me with her care when we came to live in England and I hate that I’m not there to care for her. I fear for her, Reeves.”

“You don’t think she can take care of herself?” Will asked, warming to the topic. Alfred was always worrying for his sister and Will found it endlessly endearing. He had never felt much sibling affection, or any need to defend his brothers or sister, but he understood the fierce protective streak Alfred displayed, and his mind strayed to thoughts of Bill. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that his husband was in danger, though he had no proof, and knew that he worried for Bill easily as much as Alfred did for his sister.

“I’m sure she thinks she can,” Soorjo answered drolly. “But in her last letter she informed me that she was leaving London, going to some convalescence home in the country, being run by some doctor she knows. She seems thoroughly besotted with him and her letters were full of “Freddie this, Freddie that,” I don’t know what to think. I don’t want her being taken advantage of. But since I lost the letter I couldn’t recall the name of the place, not until you said the name of your home, Reeves, last night, after they released you from interrogation.”

“Asphodel?” Will blinked in surprise, clearing his throat roughly when he felt the tell-tale scratch that came whenever he spoke, blocking his mind to any mention of the renewed, and more brutal, attempts at interrogation that he had been facing for the last week. “What of it?”

“Well, that’s where she said she was heading, I’m sure of it,” Soorjo answered. “Asphodel Meadows Convalescence Home for recovering soldiers. There can’t be too many places with a name like that around, and so I wondered what you could tell me about the place. And about this Freddie. Is it in your town? Is he a good man?”

Will sat silent, aware of the bead of sweat that was making its drizzling way down his neck to his back. He couldn’t imagine Bill converting his home in to a hospital or anything like it, he needed his privacy and his solitude, but Alfred was right, it was unlikely that there could be a second house named Asphodel in the country, and the mention of a doctor named Freddie added truth the story that was unfolding in his mind. How long had he suspected that Bill wasn’t tucked up safe at home? How long had he feared that the letters he received from his husband were coming from the mud drenched trenches instead of their peaceful home? How long had he known the truth and denied it to himself, for the sake of false hope?

“Freddie is good friend of mine,” he whispered, blinking at the tears that had suddenly sprung up in his tired eyes. “Your sister is well looked after, Alfred, if she’s in Freddie’s company, and so is my house, it seems, if she’s turned it to her purpose. She’s safer there than in London, my friend.”

He smiled, thankful for the darkness now, as it hid the tear that had escaped to trail down his cheek. His fantasy of his home, untouched by the war, a safe haven for Bill, and the life he hoped to return to, was gone, and as that truth sunk in he felt his resolve crumble. He felt ill, and could barely breathe through the tears as they began to cascade downward. Never in his life had he felt more homesick and the shame of it made him fear he would vomit, but to his surprise Soorjo leaned in and put an arm around his shoulders to pull him in to a tight hug.

Suddenly from nowhere the ground shook and a dull booming rattled through the thin walls of the barracks, followed by the hollow tatting of machine guns and the panicked yells of German guards. A second boom followed shortly after, sending loose plaster from the ceiling down upon them like fine snow and Will gasped, his body shaken by the familiarity of such a blast, though at first he couldn’t rightly place why it seemed so. There was a shout, the sound of soldiers running outside, and all around them men were waking and looking about with fear and confusion. William tried to rise but his body felt weak and he struggled to draw breath, all the more so when Soorjo stood and moved toward the man approaching them, the mysterious and commanding Major Haley. 

“This your doing, Monster?” he barked in Will’s direction, to the surprise of the men closest who turned to Will with smirks or disbelief, looks which fell from their lips at Will’s solemn look and the major’s serious one.

“Not to my knowledge,” Will told him, his voice strained, his chest tightening further with every attempt at speech. “I haven’t heard a blast like that for a good fourteen years.”

“Aye. Not since the Boer. My thought exactly,” the major grinned, but Will frowned at him, his head spinning as he tried to focus his mind and eyes. “I’ve been hoping for this and no mistake.”

“And how would you know about-” he paused, aware that they had gained a crowd and unwilling to reveal himself in any way when he could not be sure of who he could trust. “How would you happen to know about my past military endeavours, sir?”

The major leered at him through the darkness with a maniacal gleam in his eye, his thick Scottish accent adding to the drama that Will knew the man lived for. “Because I’ve been following your career with interest for some years, Captain. It makes for entertaining reading and I happen to have the clearance needed to read it. So,” he said, turning to the room of men, and claiming their attention easily. “It seems that Monster’s prison breakers may be at it again. Lets get moving, boys. One way or another we are getting out of here. To arms!”


End file.
